Category: Dreams

William Shatner and Seven

The dreams, the dreams.

A tsunami of eclectic dreams lifted me up and carried me out. The numeral “seven” dominated. I know of at three instances. I believe that I counted seven dreams, and seven appeared in two of them.

An argument ensued, and a rift opened between two groups. I knew them all. I thought it was bullshit, and stayed loyal to my friend. The rest were throwing a party. My friend was being ostracized and wouldn’t go. I went anyway, to make a point. The host asked me if I was still friends with the other guy. I said, “Yes.” “Then you’ll need to pay seven dollars for a beer.”

Fine. WTF? went through my mind. Was that supposed to intimidate me?

I left the house through a back door, just to get fresh air. A Saint Bernard was there. He wanted out. I knew he wasn’t supposed to get out, but he got out when I opened the door. He ran around a moment, and then I said, “Get back into the house,” which he did. I returned to the party and went to the hostess. I had not finished my beer, but I wasn’t staying. I gave her the seven dollars and said, “Give this to your husband.” She didn’t understand and didn’t want to accept it. “Just give it to him,” I said. “Tell him it’s from me. He’ll understand.”

Seven appeared again later:

I’d been waiting with my friend to take a course. He remained ostracized. People avoided our table, and our so-called friends were rude to us. The instructor, noticing this, told my friend and I, “Pay me seven dollars. You’ve finished the course.”

“No, we haven’t taken it yet. We’re waiting to take it.”

“No, you don’t need it. You’ve already taken it. Here’s your certificates. Just give me seven dollars.”

Okay.

It was interesting that I was receiving seven dollars, and then giving seven dollars, all under the umbrella of seven dreams.

In another dream vignette, I didn’t like how matters were transpiring. I was being interrogated and told to sign a loyalty statement. That made everyone afraid. I was afraid at that point, but then asked, “Why should I be afraid? I will not.” So I endured, and signed. Everyone else told me that was a mistake. I said, “You’re thinking wrong about this. As long as they have you afraid to sign, they’ll control you. But because I’ve signed, I can never be controlled again.”

They did try to make me sign again, but I prevailed against them, twice, and felt damn good about it.

Then there was the scene where I was in someone else’s new house. It was very high-tech and expensive, with many windows, and even glass walls inside the house. Its layout bemused and amused me. I thought they were trying too hard. While walking through, I saw a wreath with a candle in a box. I’d seen this in portions of other dreams, sometimes in a box, but sometimes hanging on a door. I’d come to know that these were made and distributed by William Shatner.

Seeing this one, I pointed it out to my friend. I said, “They’re everywhere.” My friend said, “That William Shatner is an evil genius.” We laughed.

Out of all this, I awoke from dreaming and slipped into writing mode. I needed to write a chapter called “Circle,” I realized. “Circle” began acquiring substance as soon as the word was known.

So here I go, writing like crazy, at least one more time.

 

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The Tree Dream

Vignettes played as dreams last night, with each sharing the need for there to be a tree in it.

The first vignette centered around camping. I was with friends (none recognized). We were searching for a camp site. It might have been at Laguna Seca (Mazda Raceway). One of the guys suggested that I go ahead and find us a site. “Just make sure it has a tree.”

I went looking and saw plenty of trees, but none that seemed to fit the need. Alone, I began complaining to myself about why one of the others hadn’t come with me.

Another vignette began. I was with friends. We were there to play softball. “Find us a field with a tree,” one man told me.

“A tree?” I said. “Why would you want a softball field with a tree? Wouldn’t the tree interfere?”

He and others insisted we needed a tree. Exasperated, I agreed to find a field with a tree, and then a third vignette started.

I was with friends. We needed a hotel room. “Try to get us one with a tree,” a friend told me.

A hotel room with a tree? “Do they have those?” I said.

“Yes, I’m sure they do. Just ask.”

They went off, leaving me alone. After looking around, I spotted the front desk and went over. “I need a room with a tree,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” came the answer.

Without further issue, I entered a room. Huge, it was carpeted, with windows. And against one pale wall, grew a large tree.

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Mining Dream

I dreamed, working alone, I was mining. I didn’t see what I was mining, but I was extracting something in a well-lit, pleasant environment, and I knew it was worth a fortune. It was a positive and powerful experience.

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The Sisters Dream

I dreamed of my sisters, sisters-in-law, and their daughters. My wife was also present, but ‘off-stage’, in the other room. Sometimes I heard her, but I never saw her. Only one male was in it; he didn’t enter until the end.

I was in someone’s house. I don’t know whose house. Toward the dream’s beginning, one sister-in-law entered. She and I hugged. She said, “How long until December?”

There was a calendar on the wall beside us. Indicating it, I said, “You’re behind. It’s already December. It’s almost the middle of December.”

She and I joined the others by a coffee table. Everyone was happy to see me, and I was happy to see them, but I knew it was a dream, and I was trying to understand why they were there, and what was going on. Bowls of finger-food and plates of sandwiches filled the coffee table. My two youngest sisters were beside it. The youngest was talking and laughing with several nieces, while the next oldest sister talked to me about the food and asked me what I wanted. I saw my older sister and my other sister in another part of the room. Multiple overlapping conversations were taking place, and there was a lot of laughter. I couldn’t hear much of what was being said. My sister-in-law sat close to me, trying to talk to me, but my sister was also talking to me, leaving me unable to answer either.

Taking a break from them, I went into another room. My Dad was in there, doing business. I was trying to understand what his business was, and what was he doing. Although I asked these questions, I couldn’t comprehend his responses. Eventually, I went back into the other room to find something to eat.

Which is where memory of the dream fades.

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For Today’s Dreams

I need to think about and research these items from last night’s dreams:

  • Eating ham, and wrapping ham to take with me
  • Q-tips
  • Attending a rock concert in Japan
  • And the words, “Trey Chico,” which made a lot of sense to me in the dream

The name of the concert was “Trey Chico.” Three boys, I wondered several times during my dream.

It was an interesting concert venue. The stage was on one end in a field, about a mile from a field for parking cars. Between the parking and stage were long, open rows between rows of small apartments. Japanese people set up blankets in the open rows, and waited for the concert in the apartments.

We arrived early, in late afternoon for the concert. My wife was with me. We were in the cheap section. Meeting others, I ate some ham. I never saw any of the concert. I left right before they were supposed to play “The Star-Spangled Banner”. My wife stayed at the concert when I left. I wrapped ham in paper to take with me before I left, and made sure I took my laptop computer with me.

It was dark, but with lighting when I left. Fences blocked some sections. Others were attempting to leave, as well. I knew that the fences were there, but didn’t know how to get around them. A Japanese man came up and told us how to do it.

Walking through the open rows to get to parking, I was warned several times not to step on the Japanese, or their blankets. I cut back and forth, sometimes running, to go the mile to the field, and sometimes entered and left one of the small apartments. I thought they were clever, and that the concert arrangement was clever.

I ran into my wife in one of the apartments. She was with friends. They’d gone to a nearby shop, and then toured this apartment. Showing me Q-tips, she said, “They have the right Q-tip holders. We saw them. Where did we see them?” I knew, but I didn’t answer her.

Reaching the parking field, I oriented myself. After counting the rows, I turned and walked down one row to my car.

The dream ended.

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Total Sense

After finishing one chapter, I bought a fresh cuppa coffee and began the next chapter. I’m excited. I know what to write, although, again, imagination and characters have taken me into unexpected directions.

Mixed in with my thoughts about writing this novel are a host of other matters to attend. I’ve been procrastinating about them, and worrying about them, even as I urge myself, “Just fucking do it.” And then, without warning, my dream about the cookies, and the job interview (to sell cookies) comes into focus. Understanding blooms. I know what it means, and it surprises me, but also makes me happy.

It’s just fascinating how our brains and minds work on so many levels. Been a great day of writing like crazy. Just a little more to do today, and then I’ll call it.

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Symbols

You ever have a dream, and awake and wonder, now what does that mean? Then you search for meanings of things that appeared in your dreams?

Yeah, it’s cookies for me today. What does it mean to be offered a job selling cookies, in a dream?

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The Writing Dream

I was in a busy, well-lit place that seemed home and office. Dozens of others were present, including my wife. People ) were milling around, talking to one another, examining my possessions – for it’s then that I realized it was my place – and offering desultory comments on my writing and past efforts. One odd-looking man, heavy, with slick, black receding hair and a black mustache and goatee on a bullet-head thrust onto a stout neck, was most outspoken. He mocked my collection of past writing efforts, done in the initial years in lab notebooks, saying things such as, “What is this stuff? What is it?”

I tried ignoring him as my wife talked to me. I was sitting at my computer at a table. Her comments confused me. I sought clarification. She was trying to talk to me about another manuscript of mine, telling me, “No, that other one. You know the one I mean.”

Finally, I stood. Walking over to the odd-looking guy, I said, “Stop talking about  my fucking writing. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t say another fucking word.”

He stumbled off, red-faced and shocked.

End of dream.

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Prove It

The first thing he thought of, after recognizing where he was, and what he was doing, was the Rolling Stones song, “Get Off of My Cloud.” Not really correct. Does correctness have degrees? Sure, they give partial credit to partially correct answers. Yes, but not in this situation. So, he corrected, not correct. He wasn’t on a cloud. He was on a contrail, as he’d learned they were called, a chemtrail, as others called them in the second half of his life.

Poisonous air vapors, they were. Surrounded by blue sky, he was walking on them. As he didn’t know how he’d reached them (nor how he could be walking on them), he believed he was dreaming. How high was he? Well, very high. He’d read that commercial aircraft generally fly over thirty thousand feet in the U.S. He assumed he was in U.S. air space, although nothing supported that assumption.

Physically, then, he wasn’t doing this, couldn’t be doing this, unless it was a dream or virtual reality. There was no way he could otherwise be surviving so comfortably at such an altitude. At this altitude, if it’s over thirty thousand feet, he was higher than Mount Everest. The air would be too thin for normal breathing, he was breathing normally, he ascertained with tests. At that altitude, the temperature would be forty-nine degrees below zero, or worse. He wasn’t dressed for that kind of cold.

But here he was, in his Lee jeans, knit shirt, Nikes, and Columbia Wear fleece, striding along without issue. Which presented the idea that maybe these contrails were far lower than they should be. That was absurd, of course; that’s not how they worked. Nevertheless, he stopped walking, turned, and looked over the side.

Big, big mistake.

He’d been able to see mountain tops and distant horizons of clustered buildings and farmland when walking along. But now, looking down, he found a true sense of his altitude, and it freaked him out. He was so freaked out, he should awaken at any moment now.

He waited.

Nothing changed. He looked back and forth along his contrail. It stretched on for a long distance. He could do three things now. One, step off the contrail and see what happens. Two, follow the contrail and see if it led anywhere. Three, he could stand there and do nothing until the contrail faded away.

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The Place Dream

I was attempting to firm up my understanding. Little was coming.

In my twenties, I’d made it to the place, but didn’t know the place’s purpose. Located on a busy street, the place was an innocuous building with rooms and offices. It could have been a school or business. Others of my age were there, and a staff gave vague instructions. Reticent and withdrawn as I always am, I found an office, sat down and waited.

This rough sequence repeated a few times. People warmed to me, and I, to they, through the sequence, but I still had no idea what the place was, or my role. But a taller, bigger, gregarious person decided he liked me, and started letting me go with him when he did things. He seemed to have a greater position than most.

At each day’s end, we would leave the building and then board one of two buses. I didn’t know the difference between the two buses or which I should ride. Everyone else seemed to know. I would ask, but I never understood the answer. I tried to stay with my big buddy. Riding a bus, I would look around, mostly interested in the other bus, to see if it went somewhere different.

When the bus stopped, they’d call something out, and I’d know to get off. When I did, I’d be back at the place.

I grew comfortable with the routine, although I didn’t understand it. Not understanding it, though comfortable, I kept looking for more information. I asked others questions about what we were supposed to be doing. Smiles were mostly given in answers, sometimes with vague statements like, “Oh, you’ll know,” or, “You’ll find out.”

Came a time when a female supervisor came in and spoke with us as my buddy and I sat in an office. I don’t know what was being discussed; it seemed like a foreign language.  As she spoke, she gave me a small silver container and a package of matches. The small silver container, the size of a tea candle, had silver, waxy material in it, but no wick. Confused about whether it was a candle and I was supposed to lit it, or that it was something for my consumption, I puzzled over it and the matches as the woman spoke.

Others came in, looking for me. They had news about what my big friend was planning to do. I went to his office. He wasn’t there. Two objects were there. I studied them. They were red and white missiles on rails. I understood what they were. Rumors were circulating that he intended to launch them in test, to see if they would work correctly and explode. Worrying that he might be planning to do that in his office, I sought him out.

We talked. He explained with a dry chuckle that he was awaiting a test location. No, it would be safe. No one else would be there. He was trying to reassure me but he wasn’t answering all of my questions.

The woman came in and gave me another silver container and matches. The match book was closed, but one match was stuck out, as though it was there to be used. I remained unsure. I feared that if I lit it, the silver stuff would explode.

It was time to leave. I went out with the rest to catch a bus. I didn’t see my big friend. Everyone else boarded a bus while I debated about which to take.

The buses left without me. After a moment of concern, I shrugged it off and started walking. I knew where the buses were going and could walk there.

I passed the buses as I walked. People on the bus came to the windows. I heard them saying, “Look, he’s walking faster than the bus.” It was true. As they said that, everyone came to the buses’ windows to see me passing the bus. That inspired me to walk faster, determined to beat them to the destination.

The road narrowed and grew dark, the first time that it was dark in the entire dream. I found I was walking upside down. “Look,” the people on the bus said, “he’s walking upside-down. He’s walking on the ceiling.” They sounded amazed and envious.

The ceiling became dirty and thick with roots. It was like I was underground, with the road and the buses beneath me. I fell off the ceiling, but picked myself up and continued walking, right-side-up. Then, I was walking on the ceiling again. I was determined that would not stop me. I learned that whenever I discovered I was walking on the ceiling, I could rotate it, and it would be the proper orientation and surface.

I continued walking. I beat the buses to the place. Dirty and sweaty, I went inside. Sitting at a desk, I listened to the woman talking. She brought me the silver thing and the matches.

I tasted the silver thing to see if it was edible, and awoke.

 

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