Category: Dreams

The House Dream

I dreamed my wife and I were setting up a business. But we needed a place for that. Someone overheard us and said that they have such a place available: their house.

So, we, with the couple who owned their house and several of their friends, went to the people’s house. My wife and I walked around it. Beautiful place. Several levels. Large, off-white, a modern design, resembling something Frank Lloyd Wright may have designed in the way it used light, space, and materials, it was well-appointed with expensive furniture, appliances, and paintings.

My wife and I were impressed. The owners showed us a central rectangular room where they’d set up a small factory. My wife and I agreed, “This would be perfect for us.” Yes, others agreed. The way they said it cause some suspicions. Realizing that, the others tried reassuring me. My suspicions remained but I inquired about buying the house. It was agreed that we could buy it right then and move in.

The original owners had another house on their property. We were now neighbors. People had to go through our property on foot to reach the other house. My wife and I invited friends over for a small gathering. Our cat was with us, exploring the new home and giving its approval. We sat with our friends in the living room, talking, having drinks.

A man burst in through a door. Large, middle-aged, he was armed with several knives. He was also drunk. I grabbed his wrists and pinned them to his side. Then I wrangled him onto a sofa and shouted to my wife to grab the knives while I held him. She came over but did nothing. I repeated what I’d told her but she barely responded. Finally, exasperation seizing me, I held the man’s wrists and pried the knives way.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked my wife. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

She moved away and sat. It seemed like she was in shock.

I held onto the man’s shoulders and told him, “Don’t even think about running away.” Drunkenly grinning, he agreed. I told others to call the police.

The man looked familiar. A friend said, “Don’t you recognize him?”

I asked the man, “What’s your name?”

He said it, and my friend said, “He was an NFL quarterback.” I asked for confirmation. Beaming, the drunk guy replied, “That’s me.” Then he jumped up and ran out of the house. I started giving chase but stopped, thinking, WTF?

A large number of people were outside, moving like ants toward the other house. They were expensively dressed. I asked one, “What’s going on?” She explained that they were all invited to a party.

They were a quiet crowd. I guess several hundred were there. I organized them into a line along the path, although I don’t know why I did that. The bottleneck was the front door of the other house.

Dream end.

0

A Loaded Dream

It was a long and involved dream. Here are some dreamlights.

I was a young middle-aged man and head of a small business unit. We were located in a semi-tropical, warm, high humidity area. It was not the United States. Outside of my co-workers, the people I knew had all lived in the same huge brick apartment building. All Americans lived there for at least the first four months after their arrival in counrty.

A black 1968 Camaro Z/28 with silver stripes seen three times. A young man was driving it. In real life, I owned a Camaro but not a Z. Mine was not black and silver. Black and silver were Bruce McLaren’s original colors before he changed the team to Kiwi orange or Gulf orange. McLaren was a New Zealand driver and car constructor I idolized as a boy. I had an HO scale racing car of his black and silver McLaren Elva in my car line up.

Musical groups were offered, including the Suzy Qs. That CCR song, “Suzie Q”, was played. Sam Smith was offered, too. His hit, “I’m Not the Only One” was played. In conversation, I was told that not all offerings were available. A weird and arbitrary fashion was invoked to decreed who could be seen, and who could see them. After listening to that, I rejected that method. Said that I wasn’t going to follow or enforce it because it was stupid, and then left. That ended that.

The weekly entertainment was offered on a waxy red poster on a brick wall outside among some foliage. 80 pounds was listed as the admission price for one of them. Hearing that, I opted not to go. A friend was sunbathing nearby. I lied and told her I wasn’t going because there was a baby shower for a woman living in the building the same night as the concert.

Saw two therapists, both women. The therapists were seen three times total. I walked with one of them, talking to her about some of my career frustrations and disappointments. When I saw the other therapist a second time, she couldn’t find my records. I then told her that I’d spoken to the other therapist about that therapist, and then told that therapits what I’d told the other therapist.

Overall, a very good dream.

2

Satura’s Theme Music

April 12 of 2025 begins with a sense of rain. Clouds loaded with grays and blues swell over the western pines and ridges. It’s 42 F. Rain serenaded us through the night. We’re dry for the moment but the wind carries a wintry stick, and humidity puts a clingy wrap on us. The high for today will be 58 F. This is Saturda.

As I loll in bed and think about dreams, I consider nesting a little longer. It is Saturda. I was busy yesterday.

Fresh reminders bolt in from the awakening neurons. It’s Saturda. Green Bag Day!

Checking the time, I relax. There’s plenty o’ time before the scheduled pickup of the bi-monthly emergency food bank donation. But I’m awake and energetic thanks to the momentary panic whipped up when I remembered that the green bag must go on. I get it done, just because.

Papi is again at a loss. The ginger cat was adjusting to warm and sunny naps among the bushes. Now, this stuff again, this wind, this rain. The cat comes to the door and gives me a look to come back in. “I know,” I tell him. “You don’t want to come in. You want to follow your nature and remain outside. But you don’t like the wind.” A wintry glance passes from the cat to me as he drifts past. Once inside, he breaks into a quick trot into the dining room. A grooming sit commences. This is what I had in mind all along, he projects in that way that cats do.

The cat is right, though. We were being groomed for nicer weather. Whatever plans involving involve the outside that arise today, I’ll need gear to block that wind. With that thought crossing the finish line, The Neurons begin chanting, “Block that wind, block that wind.” The Neurons can be an irritating group.

Clive’s Tuesday Tunes 246 was about music about dreams and dreaming. He offered a solid Dream Five. After listening to them and remembering, I woke up this morning with Heart singing “These Dreams” in the morning mental music stream. According to the wiki thingy, Martin Page and Bernie Taupin wrote this song. Stevie Nicks passed on it, but Heart went with it. Released in 1986, the song is about living another life while sleeping at night.

Today’s video offering features a different take on the song. Alison Kraus is on lead vocals with Heart’s Wilson sisters offering backing vocals.

Coffee is wending its way past my lips and down my throat, past the epiglottis and down the esophagus to finish its journey into my stomach. Papi has gone back out to see if the weather is any better yet. With coffee’s encouragement, I’ll hit the news. Hope your day is full of things which make you sing, dance, and be happy. If not those, may nothing kill, injure, or sicken you. I know; it feels like I’m hoping for a lot in these times. But we gotta keep hoping.

Cheers

1

The Studebaker Dream

Dream fade in. I’m a young adult. I’m with a real-life friend who passed away a few years ago. He’s charging me to take care of his care for him. “Drive it over to the condo and put it in the parking garage,” he tells me.

The car is a silver 1956 Studebaker Golden Hawk in pristine condition. I agree to do as he asks. He and I are on vacation together, along with our extended families. I drive the Studebaker over and park it in the garage. I can see it from the rented, shared condo. The condo is enormous. The living room/dining room/kitchen combo’s entire western side is open to the sun and surf. Yes, surf, because it’s located right above a long, flat beach. Wonderful sunshine and blue sky are visible outside.

The condo is busy with people coming and going, talking, making plans. All of the people are familiar t me. Many are real life friends and relatives.

I’m part of the conversations and activities about our plans. But I’m also distracted, concerned about the Studebaker. Word comes to me that it needs to be moved to let some big truck by. I don’t want to go over there to move it. But somehow I have a black, wireless remote control. Using it, I start the car, back it up, let the truck by, and then park the car again. I end up doing this same maneuver three more times. In parallel, I discover that the remote works on other cars as well. I keep moving cars for people using the remote.

Then we’re all dashing around, doing things, collecting groceries, making meals, eating. As that happens, I discover that all of the Studebaker’s windows are shattered. The car is also riddle with dents and scratches. Non-plussed, I wonder aloud, what the hell happened? I’m concerned about what my friend will say about his car’s condition.

While I’m still fretting, we all go outside to enjoy the sunny beach and ocean. It’s wonderful out there. Then, shallow, long waves enter. News reaches us that there’s a storm far offshore driving these waves. Sunshine glitters along the waves. We talk about what a powerful storm that must be.

I return to the condo for something. When I’m in there, I hear shouting from outside. Turning, I see a long, flat, white wave race up the beach. It’s not deep or thunderous but it was wholly unexpected by everyone. Watching, I see that no one is hurt. Fast moving, the water only reaches most people’s knees.

Although the condo is above the beach, the wave rushes into the condo. It carries me, upright, the condo’s length. I laugh, enjoying the experience. Looking across at the parking garage, I realize that it’s gone, along with all of the cars which were parked in it. I’m amazed but relieved; I can’t be blamed for my friend’s car damage now.

The water swirls around inside the condo. I wish for a towel. Then I realize, damn, I left it on the condo floor. It’s underwater now.

I think, I should have picked up a towel when I saw the wave coming.

Dream end.

A note: the man who passed away shared my first name, Michael. The car in the dream was made the year that I was born, 1956. Coincidence? Who knows?

0

The Godzilla Dream

I was with several other people cowering in a building’s wreckage. Trying to rest.

The building was in a disaster area. It’d been storming. A dark day was ending. Night was arriving. The storm was beginning another act. It wasn’t the storm which caused the wreckage.

Talking to one another, we knew it was time. The creature was regular and consistent. It would be returning. The creature caused all the destruction.

We also knew that it knew about three of us. We’d been fighting the creature, as others had done. One by one, the creature had found and killed the others. Through conversation, we agreed, the thing knew where it was. We discussed who would fight it next. A young woman said that it would be her.

Noises told of the thing’s approach. Peering out through broken walls, we looked for the thing. Dusk was giving up its last hold. In it, we saw the unmistakeable profile of the towering fictional lizard monster, Godzilla.

Godzilla came right for us in our building. Scrambling for cover, we went in three different directions as the building was ripped apart. Cement walls flew past my head. Ducking into a dark safe room, I caught my breath and got ready to go fight.

Jumping up, I ran back out to confront Godzilla. The mechanism of how any of us were expected to defeat the creature was unclear but I was sure that I could do it.

Breaking out onto an office building’s flat rooftop, I spied the young woman raising across rooftops, jumping from building to building. Tearing buildings down, Godzilla thundered after her.

Then his tail swept around and took out the building I was in.

I saw it coming but didn’t react in time. As the building went over with cascading thunderous crashes, I drew my body into a ball and fell through the building and into a street.

I wasn’t hurt.

Godzilla was visible over a mile away. The sky was growing lighter, like dawn was coming. Then Godzilla disappeared.

I watched for him to reappear. Word arrived: Godzilla was dead. Gone. The young woman had defeated him but died in the process.

I was amazed and overjoyed. With the sun rising, we could see the city flattened in every direction. People were crawling out of the wreckage.

Gazing across the wreckage toward blue sky, I saw another creature emerging. I knew I’d need to fight it, too. As I prepared to go, I wondered if there would ever be an end to monsters.

Dream end.

Note: I’m aware that I referred to PINO Trump as Trumpzilla recently. My mind apparently worked that into a dream for me. I’ll let you decide what it all means.

0

The Gun Dream

This dream played out in three parts last night. Wasn’t much of me in it; I played a frustrated bystander.

I was with one of my younger sisters. We were milling, killing time waiting for something to go on. Details about that aspect were spare.

In walks a young man. Swarthy, with a cushion of dark, curly hair and a skinny, ripped body. Wears a tight maroon shirt and black pants. I barely know him but take it he’s a young man interested in one of my other sisters. He’s not very talkative. Chatter is going on around us but I’m a magnet on him. Studying his moves. Because something is off. I’m keen to know what.

I notice that as he shifts, he has an automatic handgun. He’s trying to hide it. I think he’s going to do something stupid with that weapon. Then he goes off.

Awakened for a cat matter, I reflect on the dream. It’s not out of my usual book of dreams. I lack clues about what it means.

The dream’s second act starts with me and the guy and my sister. I think the guy’s name is Paul. I try to talk to him. He’s truculent. We’re taking refuge in a garage that’s been converted into a bedsit sort of situation. The small space’s walls are cinder blocks painted white. Flourescent tubes give us stark lighting.

My sister is resting. I’ve covered her with a blanket but I’m watching Paul. Food is available, along with an old microwave. I offer to prepare something for everyone, talking to them about what’s available and what they might want. Paul is pretty furtive. I notice he has a black ski mask. Slipping it on, he leaves.

Figuring that Paul is off to rob someone, I’m angry. I rush out to chase him down and tell him not to do it. The door opens to an alleyway lined with a fence and thick with junk, like barrels, broken wooden pallets, and cast-off tires. It’s raining. The late afternoon light is anemic. Unable to see Paul, I return inside and put something into the microwave.

Another cat break is endured. During that time, I see that Paul resembles my sister’s father. She’s my half-sister, I should clarify, with a different father. I wonder about that as I tuck back into bed and fall back into sleep’s grasp.

Segment three has Paul returning. It’s much darker in the garage, and I don’t see him well but come to see that he’s still wearing a black ski mask. “What did you do?” I ask him several times, to no responses.

Someone pounds on the door. Adjusting his balaclava, Paul goes to the door. Aiming the gun at head level, he jerks it open. I wonder, police? Some other criminals? I hear speaing but can’t understand it.

That is where the dream ends.

0

Twosda’s Theme Music

Not a good night of sleep to end March of 2025 for me. Twosda, April 1, 2025, has begun with overnight lows in the bottom of the 30s F. 38 F now. Highs will hit the 40s. Squirmy grey clouds shoulder down onto the mountains and separate into misty tendrils. Rain falls. Blue sky is off limits. A skittish sun reassures us it’s daytime.

Papi disliked the rain. He was in and out a billion and seven times between 6 and 8 AM. Fed up by the stale routine, I lectured him. “You’re the cat who cried in and out too many times. If you go out this time, you’re staying out there.” He was mute in response but went out. Thereafte, he beat to come in every ten minutes. I finally let him in after an hour. He reproached me with a look. Nothing has been learned here.

Dreams then contributed to my sluggish state. I had a dream in three parts. The cat kept disrupting it but I kept returning to it. Now I’m on my cup of coffee, looking to it to prompt more blood flow through me.

“We could get a tushy,” my wife says. “It’s very popular.”

She’s referring to a bidet seat. She’s been off and on about this for six months. First on. She wanted one with warm water. Than off because we don’t have an electric outlet by the toilet. I suggested having one installed. She thought about that for a few weeks and then turned that down.

“Do you want a cold water one then?” I asked. That was the natural follow up.

“Let me think about it.”

So she’s back on it today. “We need to measure the toilet,” I tell her. “To ensure it fits.”

“It fits ninety percent of all toilets,” she says.

I’ve heard that before. “We need to measure and confirm it fits our toilet seat’s shape and size. What’s a skirted toilet?” I will do these things later, I tell myself. I don’t want to disturb my morning routine. It already feels wrecked.

Part of my wrecked sensation came from a foot episode. The one which has recovered from surgery. When I arose to partake of Papi’s ingress/egress routine, the foot was painful and stiff. I’d not had any issues with it. So I responded to self, “WTF?” Thoughts of what I did with the foot the previous day were pursued. Nothing meaningful was found. It feels fine now. I register it in my permanent record as another life mystery.

Tame Impala is performing “Let It Happen” in the morning mental music stream. Maybe it’s associated with the dreams. Could also be from thinking about ordering and installing the bidet seat or from pondering the crumbling United States and the GOTP and MAGA response is to it. Although The Neurons have been with me for a few years, I’m still trying to understand how they work.

“Let It Happen” came out in 2015. I didn’t remember that. Looked it up on the net. Wiki thingy’s summary says, “Let It Happen” is about “finding yourself always in this world of chaos and all this stuff going on around you and always shutting it out because you don’t want to be part of it. But at some point, you realize it takes more energy to shut it out than it does to let it happen and be a part of ‘it’.” That’s according to Kevin Parker. Parker is the Australian who wrote the song and performs it.

I think I’m seeing some glimmering of why The Neurons have it racing around my morning mental music stream.

Coffee is not helping much this morning. My bed is singing me a lullaby. But it’s April 1. No foolin’. We’re washing the bed linens. And I want to get on to things. Writing, um, showering and dressing. I also have a bidet to order.

Hope your day is going better. Cheers

0

Sunda’s Wandering Thoughts

I’m feeling très upbeat today. I’m not sure to what I attribute this mood. Maybe it’s just something in the stars and the moon. It could be coffee lifting my spirits, I suppose. I’ve also had very productive writing and editing sessions this week and immensely enjoy the novel in progress.

It might be sunshine. Loads of it washing through the wind waving trees. Maybe it’s just my hormones, some cycle, or due to the series of terrific dreams dropped on me while I slept.

Query: do the dreams cause the mood, or does the mood cause the dream. Feels like a chicken and egg thing.

Whatever it is, hope it stays a while. Such a terrific feeling, ya know?

5

Sunda’s Theme Music

The pinks and white blossoms in my view offset the clouds’ wind and wuthering suggestions. Nothing can unburdened the wind’s effect. Lowing through the sky, it randomly shakes bushes and trees, giving an impression that one big creature is chasing a herd of other creatures through the foliage. I’m thinking, a T-Rex is after a swarm of smaller things and the smaller things are frantically ripping away.

This is Sunda, March 30, 2025. Just one more day of March after this, then April arrives to try to lift our spirits in ‘Merica.

I’ve again done the tango with my cat to give him his medicine. Knowing when it’s time to be administered, he alertly avoids me and asks for permission to leave the house. Usually takes five minutes of steps and talking back and forth before the med is delivered. I try to sound cajoling and calming; he responds with disappointment and distrust. Finally done, it’s feeding time, followed by his second med. I have the system down for the second one, amlodipine. It’s a powder. I mix it in with chumley and hot water. Then out the door he goes.

And back in, because wind. Papi the ginger blade has no patience for wind. I’ve been out there, though, and agree with his assessment, as that wind carries some winter on it. Now Papi is visiting me, paws on my leg as I sit here, requesting that I pet him. I take time out of typing and reading to do that, sipping coffee as he closes his eyes and purrs. Then, enough! He trots away.

Had a chuckle this morning. I was alone, which gave it a little crazy spin: The Observer view on JD Vance: spurned in Greenland and humiliated at home, the vice-president should resign. Right. Not holding my breath on that.

Rain tats awoke me from a swell dream today. A woman visited me to return my manuscript to me. After foisting a warm hug on me, she told me that she’d read it, and it thrilled her. Thrilled me to hear her say that. As we talk, the woman is gently stroking my arm or patting my shoulder. Her two teenage daughters were with her. She turned to leave and told her daughters to go ahead, she’d catch up. The girls went out the front door. Then the woman hugged me again and kissed me. She suggested she was interested in getting more intimate right then and there. I rejected her; she insisted and kissed me again. I was kind of, why not? But her daughters, I added. She smiled; “They won’t care.” Well…okay…

The little monkeys I call The Neurons kicked consciousness off with Laura Brannigan singing her cover of “Self Control” in my morning mental music stream.

You take my self, you take my self control
You got me livin’ only for the night
Before the morning comes, the story’s told
You take my self, you take my self control

h/t to AZLyrics.com

Oh, they’re funny. The song came out in 1984 and was a hit for Brannigan. She passed away just twenty years later, only 52. I realize in retrospect that the woman in my dream looked much like Brannigan.

Papi is asleep in his malabar chair. Coffee is selling its magic in my system. The wind is singing like a lonely cat. Hope you have a good one, wherever you are. Here we go. Cheers

0

Saturda’s Theme Music

The world is full of colors. Pinks, yellow, and greens win the eye. Must be spring in Ashlandia. Temp is 45 F, however, it feels like 60, if you stand just the right way. ‘They’ say it’ll be 55 F today as our high but left out how it will feel. Will it rain? Yes! Maybe! It’s Saturda, March 29, 2025, so who knows? I will dress for dry and rainy weather. Yeah, it’ll be a dorkish sight.

Papi the ginger blade, known locally as Butter Butt, doensn’t seem upset with us any longer. Could be because we bribed him with chumley and other treats. I don’t think he forgot. He seems to have a long memory about things. It could be that he’s trying to mislead me into thinking he’s forgotten and forgiven, and then raise floofhem some night when we really need sleep. That sort of cunning planning feels like his style.

I surfed through a wild dream last night. Whole thing was just a series of flash epiphanies in dark night. I was telling myself that star energy runs through us, firing the little nuclear responses in our cells that generate our life energy. We die when the star energy can no longer feed our cells. Star energy comes through our chakras into our corporeal beings, and so on. Time is something we made up, and we have it all wrong. Everything is happening at once. No past, no future. Time was created so we could think in a more orderly manner but we’ve taken it too fair. Now it’s our straitjacket.

There was much, much more. Such as there is only one universe, and the idea that we treat our bodies wrong by trying to heal it when we should be reversing things. Dream me didn’t explain how that was supposed to be accomplished.

I awoke really hot. There are different kinds of hot for us as humans. Drinking a hot beverage feels one way. Sex hot, sun hot, fever hot, sports hot which incudes dripping sweat, furnace hot, which dries us out, desert hot, are all different. If you think about these hots, you notice how each feels unique, and our bodies respond differently to each. Well, the hot felt when I awoke from this dream was wholly different from any of those hot experience. Perhaps that’s all only me. I’ve never discussed the different sort of hots I feel with others

Anyway, I awoke feeling a different manner of hot. Then I headed for the bathroom to pee.

Der Neurons have sprung “Star Man” by Davide Bowie on the morning mental music stream. This was from Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust era. Released in 1972, I don’t hear it often on the radio in ‘Merica. But I personally enjoy its message of hope being delivered by a Starman to Earth’s youth. I went with the Top of the Pops video performance. Even though the song is being mimed, it awakened and impressed many more people to the talent named Bowie.

Coffee is reassuring me once again. Time to play through. Hope your day is remarkable for you in many good ways. Peace out.

2

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑