Category: Dreams

Killing Michael

I thought, at first, it was an episodic dream. Those are the ones that feel like I’m in a television show. They’re usually police procedurals or adventure stories.

This one felt like that at first, but then shifted. It became an intense dream and included zombies, a macabre “Groundhog Day,” and the ever-unseen, half-remembered advisers. It began with me killing me in a bleak, yellow and gray landscape under a bleached out sky.

I, the adult, was the victim. The killer was a young version of me. I lacked clues about who he was and what he was doing at the start. Then, after he killed me, and it began again, I realized, that’s me. He’s trying to kill me. Again.

He did kill me again, and again. I couldn’t count how many times he killed me. I grew tired of it. So I killed my younger self.

That didn’t stop it. Other young versions of me came after me. If they killed me, the dream began again. If I killed them, more came to kill me. They were all named Michael, but it wasn’t just the English – Hebrew spelling used. I saw Polish and other languages on pieces of paper. The names were handwritten on line notebook paper. An short, elderly white woman, her hair in a bun, wearing wire-rim glasses, gave me the papers, one at at time. The names on the paper confused me. I asked her, “What’s going on?” She answered in a foreign language.

The advisers finally spoke up. I took them at first as F.B.I. agents or scientists, but now I think of them as advisers, someone there who is supposed to be helpful but not fully remembered. They prefer to be anonymous and in the background. This dream exposed them to the light, and they were uncomfortable.

They explained what was going on, that, yes, all these versions of me existed, and were out to kill me. That’s what they were driven to do, because, like in “Highlander,” there could be only one. Many of them came after me like they were zombies. I had to cut off their heads – my heads – to stop them. And I did, again, again, again, again.

I grew weary of killing them. The advisers told me, and I knew, I was winning, but I was tired of killing my other selves. As less of them existed, they became purified, and more in tune with me. They started knowing how I would think and act. They set up ambushes based on their knowledge and began working together. Meanwhile, as I killed them, I became stained, and less pure. I was enduring more than living.

Until it came down, at last, according to the advisers, only one other remained. He was almost the same age as me. I didn’t want to kill him. He was trying to refrain from killing me, but he was driven. Overwhelmed by his urges, he would attack me. I would take him to the point of death and stop. I didn’t want to kill him. I asked the advisers if there was anything else I could do instead of killing him.

No; they were sad. They understood. No; he must be killed.

He understood as well. He wanted me to kill him so we could end the day. Eventually, I did. The advisers confirmed, the other Michaels were dead. Only one remained, me, weary of death and killing to the point that I was tired of being alive.

I never knew the point of all of this. I was the only Michael remaining, on this bleak landscape. The advisers departed without telling me, and I awoke.

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Moving Dream Vignette

“We’re not living here any longer,” my wife announced. “We’re moving. Come on, pack up. Let’s go.”

I was bewildered. It was a dream, of course. I didn’t recognize our home, which didn’t matter. We were outside, on a busy street. So were our belongings. Cars were passing. It looked like San Francisco.

My wife was packing fast. A friend was helping. “But we don’t have anywhere else to live, honey buns,” I said, even as I began picking things up to pack.

That small matter didn’t slow my wife. She was like the a cartoon packer, collecting and putting our stuff into boxes with amazing speed. I was hesitant. A tray on a table still had my hot food. She wanted me to pack it. Instead, I furtively grabbed a handful of baby carrots in butter sauce and crammed them into my mouth.

“But hon,” I said. “Stop a minute and think. Shouldn’t we have another place to go before we pack up and go?”

No. My wife was emphatic, that this didn’t matter. We were moving. Let’s pack! So, like a dutiful spouse, I packed, eating my dinner on the side while I did. My friend, helping, saw this, and laughed.

Warning? Hope? Meaningless?

I woke up thinking, ah, we’re moving into the unknown. She’s pushing us forward, but I’m less sure, a reversal of our usual perspectives. It’ll be fun seeing what happens next.

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The Future Dream

I’ve endured a surfeit of dreams this past week. Many stayed with me. I can’t say they all did. I don’t know if that’s true.

One particularly striking dream dominated. The dream setting was simple. Basically, um, me. Not the whole me, either, but head, neck, a bit of torso, and shoulders, the traditional bust sculptor. I knew I was sitting, and dressed in a light blue Oxford shirt, like the sort I favor. I don’t know where I was. The background was a favoring blue sky rich with sunshine over a calm ocean. Green hills sloped down to the ocean. Some of this strikes me as Mediterranean in retrospect.

Others were there, never seen, but sometimes heard, males and females. They could have been one of each, or more. I never saw them. They were commentators, commenting on me, and my activities. On my part, I was looking into the future. In the first stages of this, it troubled me, because I wasn’t correctly seeing the future. The commentators, in their dry, pithy way, said, “Okay, that’s fine, you’re just starting. Take your time. Try again.” Sometimes they spoke of me in the third person, “He’s fine, let him try again.”

Arms crossed against that background, all I did was sat, look, and listen. A soft breeze tousled my hair as the future was fed to me. As that happened, I assimilated it and explained what I saw. Part of this, my dream-self knew, was to make it my own, but I was also explaining to gain feedback and improve my comprehension.

It went thus for a while, with the commentators speaking more often as my visions clarified and my confidence waxed. Like teachers, they would sometimes say, “That’s right.” A female more often told me that. The dream ended with me happy, with a male commentator saying, “Okay, he’s got it. He knows how to see the future.”

Naturally, awakening, the dream pleased me. But I was also dissatisfied, because I couldn’t remember any of the future I was purported to see. That fits better with my personal philosophy; I think the future is wholly malleable. There’s probably more than one future in my future. I may skate between them, but chances are, I’ll mostly travel through one.

Even if I’m wrong, it was such a pleasant, powerful, and affirming dream.

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“Seinfeld” On Mars Dream

I dreamed I was watching the old “Seinfeld” television show, but I was on Mars, in my ship. Awakening from watching the show, I experienced a panic attack, because I wasn’t in my Mars ship. My airlock and cockpit, which should have been to my left, were missing. I freaked. Where the hell were they? Where am I? Then, it was like someone had removed a camera lens filter. The light changed; the room darkened. I recognized that I was in my office recliner, on Earth. I’d fallen asleep watching “Seinfeld,” and dreamed I was watching it on Mars.

Which made me chuckle. It was the same episode on Mars as the one that I was watching when I awakened, “The Parking Garage,” from the second season, I think. This episode is where Kramer bought an air-conditioning unit, George is supposed to be taking his parents to a play for their anniversary, and Elaine has goldfish in a bag. Nobody knows where they’ve parked their car, so they’re wandering around, searching. I guess as they wandered, I took off for Mars.

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Game Dreams

So many dreams last night. One involved me driving a silver Dodge Charger. It’s the third time that I can recall driving a silver Dodge Charger in my dreams.

In this dream, I was driving it in a race. The race wasn’t on asphalt, but was on a white plastic track. Each race was only one lap. I was having fun, in a good mood, and doing excellent, placing at or near the top. I wasn’t at all concerned with the results. The race was always run with only two cars on the track. I didn’t know anyone else competing. I looked forward to the finish. I was younger, with thick brown hair, and much better looking than I actually am.

Oddly, though, another race was proceeding in parallel. I was informed that during my race. The other race in parallel involved animals. No animals were being harmed, but I took it that some animals were being raced. I was assured that I wasn’t involved, and it didn’t concern me. I didn’t feel concerned. The races between the animals and my series alternated. I didn’t see any of the animal races, though.

Then, in a shift, I dreamed about Chakras. I don’t know much about them. In the dream, they were like stations, and I was going about cleaning and re-charging them. It was all very matter-of-fact. The Chakras were like red cylinders mounted in a row on white pavement. Green grass surrounded the pavement under a cloudy but blue sky. A pleasant warm breeze accompanied my activity. The Chakras were labeled. I read the labels and learned they were about energy. One Chakra, for example, was about my creative energy. Another was labeled “Physical Energy.” I went to each Chakra to check their progress, humming as I did. When checking them, I’d check to see if a black hose was there, and confirm it was connected to the Chakra. I don’t have any idea what the other end was connected to.

Neither of those dreams ended with anything conclusive. They were just done.

 

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Monday’s Theme Music

A crazy dream finished my night. I’d been driving in a borrowed vehicle. It was in good shape, nothing special. Rain was falling. Traffic was dense. I was going a long distance.

We entered a wide tunnel lit with diffused dull yellow lights. More lanes were available. Veering into one, I accelerated, and caught a glimpse of a Chevy pick-up behind me. He’d apparently wanted into the space I’d taken. Now, filled with rage, he was coming up on my bumper.

Still in the tunnel, the road curved. We were going up a hill. I floored the accelerator pedal, keeping it down as engine, road noise, and speed built. Terrified by the speed, and barely in control, I was pulling away from him, and everyone else, when I rounded a corner and almost hit a van crashed on its side. There wasn’t time to stop but I managed to swerve around it. As I thought about stopping for the van and warning the other traffic, I discovered that boulders and rocks were strewn across the tunnel road past teh van. I drove around them, trying to grasp what was happening, and left the tunnel.

Rain was pouring. The day was fading. I reached my destination and pulled in, weary to the bone. It was Monday. I knew I needed to be somewhere else by Tuesday. More travel was ahead. I was with my father’s wife, and her family. Talking to others, she was planning a get-together, and I was there for it. But in flashbacks, I remembered that I’d left some things at my previous location that I needed. I grew conflicted over going back to get them – it had been such a long distance, and an exhausting drive – staying for the event being planned, or foregoing continuing on to my next location. Regarding the last point, I was attempting to understand, where was I going, and was there a need for me to go?

I awoke with this part of the song, “The World I Know,” by Collective Soul, playing in my mind:

So I walk up on high
And I step to the edge
To see my world below.
And I laugh at myself
While the tears roll down.
‘Cause it’s the world I know.
It’s the world I know.

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The Connection Dream

My streak of dreams continue. I remember many. They generally flow into some semblance of meaning for me. I’ve had nothing disturbing. All are interpreted as useful, healthy, and reassuring dreams.

One of last night’s dreams was reassuring, but also amused me. I fell asleep in the office recliner after watching “The Friends of Eddie Coyle.” Tucker and Quinn joined me, sleeping on my lap and my legs. The lights were off, but the television was on. Once the movie ended, though, the Roku went into screen saver mode, displaying the date and time.

I dreamed I was being told, “Stay there. You’re okay. Don’t worry. Stay there. A connection needs to be completed.”

Drifting awake, I stared at the television. Anxiety trickled through my mind. I had the sense I was supposed to be doing something, and I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to be doing.

But the dream voice said, “You’re okay. Stay there. A connection needs to be completed.”

Hearing that pushed questions along about what connections were being made. Some sort of update must be taking place, I concluded.

That satisfied my anxieties. Calmed, I returned to sleep. A little later, the dream voice said, “The connections are done. You’re good to go.” Waking up, I got up and went to bed. Awakening this morning, and thinking about it, I wish I knew more about the connections being made.

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Prepped

I’ve been writing in my head all morning. Now, here I am, coffee at hand, computer set up, ready to write. I feel like a little stopped up from all the mental writing.

That’s a perfect lead to my dream last night. It was all about a foreign woman trying to marry me — though she was married to another man, and he was present, and I am married, and my wife was there — my efforts to dissuade her, and then, my adventures with a toilet.

My recent dreaming has been a dream process. For the last twelve days, I’ve been awakening, remembering my dreams, and then knowing what they meant. Some of them were very specific about what to do with health issues, such as a foot bothering me. Others were about writing, and what I should do about something troubling me. I can tell you, and you can appreciate, it feels amazing to have such dreams.

So, last night’s dream was a little bit of a letdown. What especially troubled me was the end, when I was sitting on a commode and using it, and it started going forward. It was like I was riding a riding mower, except it was a toilet. After rolling the dream details around in my head down halls designed by M.C. Escher, I told my spouse the dream. She instantly provided a very satisfying explanation.

Okay, got that out of me. Now, for the rest. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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The Air, the Fitbit, the Writing, the Dreams

Our outdoor air sucks. Need more?

Smoke from wildfires is filling our air. The Air Quality Index leaped to one hundred fifteen last night. DANGEROUS. It hasn’t been hot, only into the nineties. We open the house at night to cool it off, and then close the blinds and windows during the day. Opening the windows last night sent us into coughing fits as wet smoke smells wafted in. Eventually, we donned masks.

Today isn’t as bad. The A.Q.I. is in the fifties, and officially, moderate. Visibility remains down. It’s like a white-out beyond a a few hundred feet.

All this wildfire smoke has reduced my Fitbit activities. Walking is way down, to five miles a day average. It’s not as critical as many other issues resulting from wildfires. None of the fires are directly affecting our community. We feel for all those being evacuated in those areas, and appreciate the firefighters’ efforts. If this stuff is terrible for me, a guy in his early sixties who considers himself in good health, those with emphysema and other respiratory issues must be deeply suffering.

I took to the Orson Scott Card method for visualizing and organizing the novel in progress. O.S.C. talked about just drawing places, like a city, and then adding details. With each detail and area added or defined, entertain questions about why those areas and details exist. I’ve done this exercise before, with excellent results. I wasn’t disappointed this time.

I had been editing the novel’s first draft. Halfway through that process, I perceived a problem. A new ‘greater arc’ was required as the solution. I could be wrong, but this is how I decided to address the issue. It’s essentially an epic. I like epics. Bigger is better.

This was decided over a four day period. Then, after deciding it was necessary, I went on a reading sprint. I finished reading two novels, and read two others, in five days. I also read fiction stories and news articles online. This reading stimulated my writing juices and invigorated my writing dreams. I found myself re-committed to who I was, and what I was doing. It’s a matter of taking a deep breath, turning on the computer, and putting the ass in chair, and the fingers on a keyboard.

This new arc takes place on a planet where technology fails. An outpost is established using outdated technology. Suddenly, it’s like living in a frontier castle. I loved that difference in direction from my usual challenges of visualizing the far future and other intelligent races.

I drew the outpost on my computer, and brainstormed about how the lack of technology affects them, and solutions and work-arounds. The team living in the outpost are hunting for people, but can’t use their suits or vehicles. They fall back to horses. Having horses adds more problems and dimensions.

So do the powerful windstorms endured on the planet. That’s why the outpost becomes a castle; something stout enough to survive the windstorms are necessary. That’s the iceberg view of all the scenes, problems, and challenges realized. I don’t want to give away more. Drawing and brainstorming in this manner was a catalyst to my imagination. I scrambled to capture ideas an create an event timeline. It resulted in *shudder* an outline. 

As an organic writer, the outline overwhelmed me. Suddenly, there it all was, this part of the novel mapped out in all its complications and key events. I could imagine, see, and hear them. Writing them was required. It’s daunting for an organic pantser. I decided I would scramble to write key scenes and moments, and patch them together with bridge and pivot scenes, and build the story in layers, much like I used to do when oil painting, or writing a business case, or analyzing data.

I think that whatever opened my creative floodgates also turned the dream valves to full open. I had six remembered dreams last night. Friends from my past were featured. My wife also made an appearance. Of course, maybe it was the eclipse opening the dream and creativity gates. Who can say?

Trying to capture details this morning diverted personal resources already earmarked for other activities. I resorted to dream summaries. The dreams were wild. Once again, my muses were prominently featured. They were attempting to guide and assist me in different manners. Sorting the chaos was a fascinating exercise.

Having your muses show up in my dreams injects high confidence levels. I felt empowered and emboldened when I awaken. Yet, being me, the confidence evaporates to more normal levels by midday. Having your muses and some higher beings populate your dreams and offer encouragement has a good thing. I’m certainly not going to kick them out.

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time. How about you, writers? Have you seen increased creativity? Maybe it is the eclipse.

Or maybe it’s the coffee.

2

The Trust Dream

Lately, my dreams have had their own unique brand. Except for one – where I was the General of Level Forty-three – the dreams were of me watching television. I would be in a chair, in a small room, facing a small television, watching shows. Most remarkable about the dreams were that the quantity, eleven in the last two weeks, and the surreal surprise when I awoke; it always felt like I’d never been asleep.

As for being General of Level Forty-three, only jumbled images and sounds are recalled, a surprising twist to someone like me, who often sharply remembers dream, or convinces myself that I do.

Last night’s dream broke the pattern. I dreamed I was in a room, part of a new home. Plants in pots and planters were nearby. The carpet was as green as Ireland in all those travel posters. Something else was in the room. I didn’t know what, and was trying to see.

Approaching the greenery, I tried peering past them. Movement before me caused me to stop. A snake slithered out from under the plots. I know little about snakes, but I thought it was a rattle snake.

I moved back from it. Simultaneous to this, a large dark gray rat emerged from my left. I attempted to split attention between the snake and the rat. Both worried me, but the snake worried me more.

The rat scurried in past the planters. The snake followed. As they did, a man appeared. Topless, had baggy pants and blue skin. He wore something like a turban. His hair was short and black. A thick mustache hid his mouth. He carried a scimitar.

His appearance shocked me. I demanded to know who he was, and what he was doing. With a look over his shoulder toward me, he raised his scimitar and pointed it in the direction the rat and snake had taken.

Another man, dressed like the first, appeared with a boisterous laugh. “Don’t worry, he’s here to protect you and watch over you.”

Confusion swamped me. Despite his reassurances, I didn’t understand why I needed protection, and why these people had blue skin. But before I could engage him, he whisked off to the right.

I still worried about the snake and rat. Thinking of them, I approached the green plants and parted them. Beyond were shiny, cherry-red objects. I thought they were large metallic balloons.

My perspective shifted. Flying over them, I looked down, and realized they were all small bright red cars. Parked in perfect rows, they were all shiny. I thought them new.

My wife arrived. I joined her. We were inside the interior of an old car, something with the spaciousness and finish of an American sedan from the nineteen fifties. There were seats, but no glass, steering wheel, or instrument panel.

My wife was seating on the plain bench seat. Trying to explain to her about everything I saw and worried about, I sat beside her, to her left, where the driver would sit.

She put her head on my shoulder. Her eyes were closed and her mouth carried a half-smile. “I’m not worried,” she said. “I trust you.”

The blue man with the scimitar re-appeared. Although he didn’t speak, he mimed that he’d taken care of the snake. His expression comforted me. He left us sitting in the car, and I thought, I have no reason to worry.

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