Category: Dreams

Entangled Writing Dreams

I don’t know how to describe last night’s dreams. Many and layered, I would awake from them, think about them, and drift back into the dream, or begin a new one.

I dreamed mostly about writing. I would dream I was writing. I dreamed I saw my books on shelves in stores. I dreamed I was signing autographs. I dreamed I was holding one of my books. Of course, I was pleased, proud and delighted to experience these dreams, even as I knew they were dreams.

Then I would dream I was writing again. Some of the dreams were staples of my blog posts of catfinitions. Other times, I dreamed about novels being conceived and pondered, and the novel in progress. I wrote scenes in my dreams, awoke and thought about the scenes, and returned to dreaming and writing. At one point, I awakened from a dream with an insight into something I’d thought of before, regarding ‘the cards’, and the sequencing of them. I hadn’t been comfortable with my execution of this as originally conceived, but here it was, explained in full in my dream. “I’ll need to think about this tomorrow,” I promised myself, because I didn’t want to awaken myself by thinking.

Then, in a break from dream writing, I dreamed I was singing in Spanish. A crowd of people were gathered to hear me. I don’t know what the song was, and was surprised in the dream when I realized it was me singing Spanish, because I don’t speak nor understand Spanish. I didn’t resemble myself in the dream so much as Fernando Alonso, the twice Formula 1 World Driving Champion from Spain. He and I look nothing alike but I knew in my dream that it was me.

In the morning, feeding cats, looking out windows and mentally perusing my dreams, I saw some of it as helpful for the novel in progress and other writing being contemplated. More, though, was wishful, optimism crystallized in dreams.

***

After writing the post and thinking more, I became curious about singing in a language I didn’t know in a dream, and so I did a search. This article was found, to add another twist to the dream.

After reading the article and watching the video, a connection to what I was writing in my novel leaped into my understanding. In it, with all of its entanglements, was the entanglement of a brain coping with something irrational and attempting to apply a veneer of logical explanation. This is done by appropriating others’ memories of the history they’d learned to apply an intelligent setting, from their perspective. In the way that it all works in my novel’s setting, something that works well for one person is borrowed and applied by others as being true, and becomes the basis for the reality of ‘now’ shared to create our impression of our lives.

Fun stuff, and a h/t to my dream brain and Psychology Today for boasting my insights into my writing.

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John C. Long

I don’t know who John C. Long is. In my dream last night, he was a billionaire lost in the matrix in space. I knew he was trying to become a trillionaire.

I was in space, along with others. Long was missing. They said he was in the matrix. The matrix was a blue structure of connected triangles glowing against the galaxies, stars and ink well of the region. I could clearly see it; I’m not certain if others could.

I was dubious about going after Long and kept pressing the others to tell me why they wanted me to go into the matrix, find Long and bring him back.

That’s all the dream was about.

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A Dream of Threes

One dream. Three interwoven elements.

Three suicides.

Three coins.

Three people.

What the hell does it mean?

I witnessed two of the suicides. I wasn’t certain the first one was a suicide in the dream. Then I was told it was.

A brief recap: I was on a winding mountain road. The road was in excellent shape, paved and lined. Walking with friends, energy bubbled through me. A mix of tall, green pines and hardwoods covered the mountain’s sharp edges. Looking up to a blue sky troubled by a school of cirrus clouds, I saw a small economy car come off a mountain and sail down to destruction in a ravine. I think the car was red and white, but I don’t know the make, model or year. The moment as real as any reality I’d ever experienced.

We were shocked. The accident site was hundreds of feet below us, so we couldn’t reach it to check on survivors. While we were discussing this, a speeding vehicle’s sound was heard on another mountainside. Hearing it sound, we turned in time to see a burgundy Toyota pick-up truck race up another mountainside on the wrong side of a double-yellow line. As it reached the peak, it turned into the vehicle it was passing, clipping its left front quarter panel. The truck continued with little change, driving off the road onto a wide, dusty run-off area, and then off the mountain, into the air and down to the other vehicle’s crash site.

I was certain that the second was a suicide and told that to friends. As I did, a former Sheriff came up. I explained to him what we’d seen and my theory. He confirmed that they were young lovers. The girl was driving the little economy car, and her boyfriend was in the Toyota. She’d been told he couldn’t see her anymore, so she drove off the mountain. Learning she was dead, he did the same, to join her.

We were shocked but continued on. Meeting a female beggar, I gave her a coin, which made her happy. I don’t know what the coin was. My group discussed where we wanted to go. Decisions were made. Seeing another female beggar, I gave her a coin. She was thankful and ecstatic. Some of my group didn’t approve of me giving money away. I didn’t care although I was knew I was running short of funds.

We kept walking. When we met others, I would tell them of the suicides. When I did, I clearly saw the scenes as sharply and clear as though they were happening at that moment.

Digging a hand down into my jeans pocket, I came up with a handful of coins. Among pennies, dimes and quarters was a silver dollar. Then I found a gold dollar. That pleased me because I had more money than I thought. Spying what I believed was another silver dollar, I noticed it was larger, so I looked closer. It turned out to be a four dollar silver coin. I was surprised; I didn’t know such a coin existed.

While that took place, a third woman approached me. I prepared to give her some chain and was just deciding what it was to be, when word of another suicide reached us. I don’t know who it was.

The end.

Well, that’s where the dream ended, but not my thoughts about it. Usually, clarification comes when thinking and writing about my dreams. Today, the only conclusion I reach is that I have more than I realize. That’s seems shallow and incomplete.

Trying to find answers, I look up suicide in dreams and find Jeremy Taylor’s site.

Suicide in Dreams

When “death” appears in a dream, it is a very reliable indicator that the dreamer is growing and changing so profoundly that only the “death” of the old “me”, (or part if “me”), is an adequate symbol of the psycho-spiritual process that is taking place.

But I’m not thinking about killing myself. Yes, I was thinking changes were required, however. While not writing much the past three days as I visited with family and travel, I kept thinking about my writing. I’d concluded, changes in the novel-in-progress were required, changes in my approach were required, and changes in my attitude were needed.

Yes, I supposed that could be three suicides.

Turning to the three coin, this interpretation on dreambible.com spoke to me:

To dream of finding coins represents positive feelings about gains being made in waking life. Feeling good having more than you did before. Insight into problems, increased power, or freedom gained. It may also reflect feelings of being lucky. A lucky discovery or rare coincidence in waking life. Missed or lost opportunities that have reemerged. Awareness of the value that something in your life holds.

Three beggar women? No explanation I found scratched my itch so I relegated it to background thinking. From that morass came a new approach.

I’d not witnessed the third suicide, but had been told about it. That happened as I found the third coin, when the third beggar woman approached me. Three became the critical link. The first suicide was the past; the second was the future. The third suicide, unseen, was the future. It came as the third beggar approached. She wasn’t given anything but it was during this period that I found the third coin, a unique “four dollar silver coin”. That’s a special coin, so the future will be special.

The past is paid and done; the present is paid and finished; and the future awaits, special.

Nah, I’m reaching. Maybe that’s all wishful thinking – or wishful dreaming. (Hah!) Perhaps a better answer will come to me. Maybe the dream means nothing and I’m consuming precious neural energy tilting at windmills.

Or maybe I’ll dream a more satisfying answer.

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A Dream of Departure

Man, were we busy. People were returning from other assignments, and we were all going in new directions. I knew them all, co-workers, comrades, friends. Our energy was high. My wife was busy with a special task but was becoming frustrated with her role and how others regarded her.

Our commander got up on a table to address us. He began lamely. Not getting the response he expected, he went in a new direction and then told us he’d talk to us later. We resumed our preparations.

I was happy and excited, anticipating new directions. “We need to celebrate,” someone said. “Yes,” I agreed. “We should get beer,” another said.

“I can make beer,” I announced. As I did, I went back to a clear plastic bag. Dry yellow foam filled it. Holding it up, I said, “This is beer.” The bag was as light as cotton candy. “You just need to add water.” Others were doubtful and amazed, but I was undaunted, joking with them about the brew that would result.

The bag was not closed. Tilting to one side as I pressed forward, much of the yellow foam fell out. I remained undaunted and in a humorous frame. Still talking and laughing, I began scooping up the foam and shoving it back into the bag. Another came to help, holding the bag open for me. We found this very funny.

We crossed the gathering and paused. My wife intercepted me. She was angry. “Who spilled the water?” she demanded, pointing. It took several repetitions before we grasped her question and where the water had been spilled. It wasn’t much and didn’t matter to me or the others. This irritated my wife, who stormed off in dismay. Shrugging it off, the rest of us continued to prepare to party and depart.

Afterwards, my wife and I walked along a sidewalk. Everyone was moving their possessions from their homes. Movers were going to some houses. We waved at folks that we knew but then started finding some possessions discarded along the walk. We didn’t think that stuff was supposed to be there. Beginning to pick up the first pieces, we quickly discovered a larger cache of personal, prized possessions. We were stunned. The quantity was too large for us to do anything except heap it. The mystery of how it all came to be there consumer our attention.

While we did that, one of the people came along. Recognizing some of the stuff as hers, we pointed things out to her. “I don’t care,” she said. “They can do what they want with them. I’m through with it. I’m going on.”

They settled the question in my mind. If it didn’t matter to the owner, why should it matter to me?

So much depends upon how something is regarded.

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Flying Dreams and Pieces on the Ground

I dreamed I was flying.

Well, flying was my first impression. After awakening, I realized that I sometimes traveled through the air as though I flew, but I never saw wings on me, nor did I see me flying in classic Superman fashion. In fact, sometimes I had the impression I was teleporting, perhaps by mental acuity.

The thrust of it was that I was again, as in other dreams, going around and finding pieces to put things back together. This time, it was cars. Huge chrome bumpers, grills, hoods, basically exterior body parts, were sprawled across an otherwise green and pastoral countryside. The weather was sunny, with a few clouds, but warm. The parts were not heaped but each was separate on the ground. All were in excellent shape. Most were from the nineteen fifties, it appeared to me – yes, the decade I was born.

Seeing a part with my amazing vision that I recognized, I would go to it, sometimes by flying, sometimes just moving myself. I’d collect the part with happiness. That’s the gist: I would find a part, go to it and ‘collect’ it, but I never knew what I did with them. That wasn’t shown.

I awoke befuddled. Leaping up, I looked around, trying to understand where I was, beginning to work under an urgent impetus that I needed to recharge. As I was saying that to myself, I was asking myself, “What the hell are you talking about? Recharge what? How?”

Yes, how, I was trying to remember. How did I recharge? Where did I plug in? What did I plug in? What buttons needed to be pushed? What systems were used?

Astonished and horrified that I couldn’t remember how to recharge, attempting to remember how I’d recharged yesterday, I went into the bathroom to relieve my bowels, I slowly accepted that I wasn’t supposed to be recharging anything, that I’d had an anxiety dream. I’ve had these dreams before but they’re as rare as lightning in a snowstorm. Funny enough, during the dream itself, I felt fantastic and happy.

It was only when I’d awakened that I felt anxious. The entire experience provided me with much to ponder.

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The Pilgrim Effect

He awoke in a leather recliner that he didn’t know and stared at the large television screen.

White on black, 04/08/04 was shown. Beneath it said 3:02 AM. The two pieces of information floated around the screen like they were tied together.

The room was cold around him. He needed to pee. He needed to drink. He felt parched but also like his bladder was ready to burst. He stood to attend those matter.

Mental cohesion began undoing. He didn’t know the chair or the floor. The walls weren’t familiar, nor was the other furniture. He didn’t know them, but then, he did. They came to him like long ago learned and forgotten information, forgotten because it wasn’t used. Then he was saying to himself, “Oh, yes, I remember buying that recliner.” He regarded it with deeper thought.

But then, he didn’t remember this body. Taking in his hands, he processed their shape and condition. He understood, these are not the hands I fell asleep with. He understood, but these were the hands I fell asleep with.

Trying to reconcile the dichotomy between what he saw of himself and his furniture, he looked again at the television. At 3:04 AM, he should be going to bed. He should turn off the television. He looked for the control to do that, asking with irritation, “Where is the remote?” It should have been with him at the recliner. With that reasoning, he considered, maybe it fell between the cushions.

As this was thought, he saw a remote in his mind and knew that it was a virtual device generated by a chip in his skull. He just needed to think of the remote and what he wanted it to do, and the remote would do it. This was information that he should have already had, because he’d been doing that for years.

He reconsidered the date. He’d fallen asleep in twenty seventeen. That date said 04/08/04. The oh four was for twenty one oh four. Yes, because that’s what year it was. His hands looked different because he’d received a new body in twenty fifty-six for his one hundred birthday.

They’d told him this might happen. Becoming unstuck in time, he’d time-traveled in his dreams.

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Messy Dream

What a messy, messy dream.

Setting was a combined use hotel and commercial center with offices and conference rooms. A huge, old building but in good condition, it was almost empty. It was constructed on the coast. I think it was built before World War II.

Something had just finished. There were only a few left, five or six, including me. I knew all the others but rarely saw them. All were people from other times in my life. Cast of dream stars:

  • A short, female creative writing teacher whose name I can’t remember. She was in charge. I took her classes in Germany.
  • Thomas. We were assigned together in the military at Onizuka. He was involved with the operation and situation regarding Blackhawk Down in Somalia.
  • Shawn Spieth, father of Jordan’s Spieth, the pro golfer. Shawn and I worked together at Network ICE and ISS.
  • Patricia, who worked with me at Onizuka.
  • I can’t recall the names of two others but both were male and were with me at either ISS or IBM.

So a large stretch of my careers and activities are covered by these representative people.

The conference – I don’t know what it was about – had ended. A major storm was forecast for the coast. It was well on its way.

The others were planning to leave. I didn’t think there was time. I was in my dark small room, alone, planning. The room was cluttered but comfortable and familiar. I knew that the complex was built in a series of tunnels. They were essentially constructed as a Survival, Recovery and Reconstitution Center.

The dream gets really messed up. One of the co-workers receives news his young son has died. Shawn’s son (but not Jordan) is at the shelter. He’s very sick and dies during the night. Shawn is terribly upset because his cell phone didn’t wake him. He believes he could have saved his son if it had.

It’s night, rushing toward dawn. Weather and evacuation orders have been issued. I tell the other about the tunnels. Discussions circulate about what we’re going to do.

The creative writing instructor calls us all together. We’re free to do and go where we want but meanwhile, food remains from the party. She and Patricia show us a huge stash of cakes, pies, chips, cookies, and pretzels. There is cherry pie calling me. There are other pies. ‘Help yourselves,” she says, “let’s not let it go to waste.”

Shawn signs out. His son is dead and he no longer cares. He’s leaving and taking his son’s body with him. The instructor has me sign some small plastic cards. One, green, is my membership card. On the other one, which is white, she wants me to note the date and time and some small comment about what has happened. Her instructions confuse me. The card is too small for anything meaningful, and its plastic, except for a strip where we can sign our names.

Someone notices there is ink on different surfaces. It’s Michael’s pen, they realize. Mine, I realize they’re saying. The instructor asks me, “Michael, is your pen leaking?”

“Yes,” I answer, considering the pen, my hand and the cards. The pen is a Biro. “It looks like I’m bleeding ink.”

Thomas comes to me. “Tell me everything you known about those tunnels.”

“There’s not time for that.”

“Tell me what you can.”

“This place was built on top of a warren of tunnels to survive a nuclear war. Miles of tunnels are beneath us. They go into the mountain and under the sea.”

“Then that’s where we need to go.” He nods and goes off.

I don’t care; the tunnels are where I’m going.

I look out windows. I have a radio. I can see the black storm coming. I tell the others. I began making my way down to survive. The tunnel entrances are off a huge ballroom with marble floors. I head for an entrance and see Thomas walking on the other side.

“Time to get to the tunnels,” I tell him and anyone I encounter who will listen. “We need to close the doors.” There no longer seems to be anyone else there.

That’s the dream’s abbreviated version, notes about what I remember, the highlights. I was confident throughout the dream, puzzled by the others, sad that I couldn’t help Shawn, shocked that two children had died, and also aware that I was in a dream. While I dreamed, I was trying to understand what it meant. The part about bleeding ink amused me. Yeah, open any vein.

Second, I have dreamed about coming storms and surviving before, multiple times in my life. Per this dream, I’m usually the aware one while others are oblivious.

The other element that struck me was a recurring facet of my life. I almost always worked alone. I would begin with a team but then someone would tell me, “We need someone to take care of this for us,” and would put me into a unique position where I had to work alone to resolve some problems or manage a project or situation. I hadn’t really noticed it was happening when I was in the military; it was my wife who noticed and began joking about it. I rarely knew others in my units, but normally worked with the commanders. They directly oversaw my tasks and responsibilities. Later, with ISS, IBM, and other companies, I often worked with technical directors, marketing VPs, and the CFOs and the CEOs. I was always working alone, in an unusual position, with an unusual title.

Now I work alone as a writer.

 

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Coffee Dreams

A mug of hot coffee warms my hands against the April’s winter shadow. I sit with my dreams and myself to think.

My dreams took a different turn last night. It feels like a turn for the better. Although multiple elements seen in past dreams, like being in class to learn and working with technology, were present, the dream most sharply recalled featured spilled coffee.

A thirty year old version of myself, I was at a huge room. I thought of it partly as a classroom but also as a work center. It was enormous, as large as say, an NBA basketball area. It was dark, with low task lights doing most of the illuminating. Rows of consoles with work stations filled it. Each work station feature a personal computer but also a link to a master computer. They also had television monitors, telephones, and CD/DVD players and burners. Most were unoccupied.

I’d never seen them before but now was working at one, or trying to make it work. I was holding a cup of coffee. The cup was plain, low and white with a handle. It seemed to be ceramic, nothing fancy. Coffee kept slopping out when I moved. I became aware of this and mildly frustrated. Most of my frustration was that I didn’t want to spill on the work station. Magically, the cup didn’t seem to actually lose much coffee between drinking and spilling from it.

A man and a woman who I didn’t know came up behind my station. They talked about me like I wasn’t present, yet were watching my work and commenting on it, with the woman, slender and white, with dark hair piled on her head, and dressed in a pale yellow and white gown, was telling the man, a white guy in shirt sleeves, khakis and glasses, that she was thinking of helping me. She noted how I made some of the same mistakes that she’d made. This prompted me to focus harder and think more carefully about what I was doing, which was typing. The keyboard was wrong, with the keys spaced awkwardly, even haphazardly, forcing me to struggle and repeat the typing.

When I spilled coffee for the third time, she commented on it, almost as a joke. I explained that I knew why I was spilling coffee, observing that the handle was too small for my fingers but didn’t extend enough for me to grip with more of my hand, so my grip was precarious and not balanced. The cup had a shallow draft in my opinion, with a wide mouth, and that’s why the coffee easily spilled out as I moved around. She seemed impressed with the explanation.

Walking across the work space, I came to where a teach sat with students. The teacher wasn’t anyone I know, but was young, white with dark hair in a bob. She was talking to the students in a chatty, happy voice. The other students were my age or a little younger. I was dismayed that they all seemed to be on a break. She was using the break as a teaching and bonding opportunity. I heard her say, “We all have work to do but you can work at your own pace.” I was happy working, because I had a problem and I wanted to solve it, so I decided to return to work.

But then I thought that I’d watch a movie. I had a DVD in hand. I don’t know what movie it was. I realized, though, that I could put the movie on at my station and watch it there, while I worked, so I turned to do that. When I did, I spilled coffee a fourth time.

That made me smile.

Awaking this morning and thinking about the dream, I felt empowered, invigorated and optimistic. I can’t say why. Was it the spilled coffee? I put a lot of faith in coffee to help me think, focus and work, but that was usually around preparing and drinking it, and not spilling it.

Coffee is associated with get up and go with me. Drinking coffee is part of my rituals for preparing to do multiple things, from writing, cleaning and yard work to washing the car and traveling. So the coffee in the dream is about entering a new stage of activity. The moments of sitting and taking a few sips of coffee is always the cusp of a new beginning for me, a signal to start. Spilling it was important because it didn’t matter to me or anyone else. The cup was limitless; more coffee was always there.

From all that, I decided, I’m ready to step up my pace of work and activity. I have the coffee, now let’s get to it.

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Dream Magic

My theme music for yesterday was Seal’s ‘Crazy’. The recurring refrain, “Yeah, we’re never gonna survive, unless we get a little crazy,” became my dream’s theme music last night.

Literally.

Last night’s dreams was like a television series. I binged on an entire season. Each episode followed its own arc. Each featured ‘Crazy’ as music after the episode’s climax.

The dreams began with one in which, I thought, how funny, I’m not even in this dream. I was witnessing a convention. It was a packed, happy, energetic crowd. Displays were being set up. Demonstrations took place.

I drifted into one demonstration, making my first appearance in the dream. It was about hacking. Interesting and amusing. No, not just about hacking, my dream persona observed, but hacking magic.

I was with friends. Everyone was perplexed about what was being demonstrated. Suddenly, I grasped it; when three cubes could be aligned and turned into one color, magic took place.

Like the old computer game, Tetris.

Okay.

But more magic hacking was being demonstrated. Fascinated, I separated from my friends to pursue learning this magic. Each episode took me further from there and deeper into a quest. By the season’s end, I was alone at a black magic convention. Other people were present but I didn’t know any of them. I was broke, gaunt, dirty and unshaven, with long, disheveled hair and threadbare clothing.

The setting was a dark, wet and decrepit abandoned arena. Others seeking magic and energy were present. An intense scene, we all knew of each other but didn’t know one another. We wanted to help one another but were also leery of the others. But this is where my quest for more had taken me.

Needing rest, I slept on the second floor, sharing a urine stained mattress and Army blankets with a stranger, another man. Although younger, he seemed in worse condition than me, sleeping the entire time while I tossed and turned. I was specifically seeking…a magic manuscript.

Three times, I tried finding and acquiring it. The fourth time, I succeeded.

And then I lost it.

The others knew this and were sympathetic. There were suggestions the manuscript had been stolen.

With some detective work, I found it.

But I was running out of time. The convention was ending. I wanted to present the manuscript to the convention leaders. A bus would take me to them. I missed the bus once…twice…. The manuscript disappeared again. I found it again but missed the bus again, even though others had helped me.

By this point, I was almost a filthy, barefoot beggar. On a tip from another, I learned that the convention leaders were coming through on their way to leave. I could intercept them. The rest encouraged me to do that. Which I did, presenting my manuscript.

It was a big, black, fat, unwieldy document. The leader, a suave man who looked like a young Jon Favreau, glanced at it as he walked by. “It’s not what we’re looking for.”

Yet, this was the magic. I knew it was.

Defeated and out of time, I headed home. I was broke and exhausted. It was a hard journey.

My wife was in the bathroom, getting ready for a party behind closed, locked doors. I could hear her humming. Others began arriving to set up. They were bringing in food and cakes. All were people I knew during my life, friends from other eras.

They were in good spirits, which spread to me. I began cleaning myself up to join the party. At that point, I knew the season was over, but the series was not. More was to come.

Cue ‘Crazy’ and the show’s ending.

I awoke despondent and sat alone in the living room for a while, watching the day grow brighter and thinking about my dream. Clearly, I thought, this was about my writing efforts and my career. I was seeking the magic. I’d missed.

But, it wasn’t over. As ‘Crazy’ streamed through my head and I began my daily routines, I took some solace from the hope, it wasn’t over.

There are more seasons to come.

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Dreams of Resistance

New, powerful dreams swept in to replace the soul-dragging sprawl of dreams endured my previous three nights. Now I was once again enabled and empowered. Confident in my understanding of what had happened and what needed to happen, I began installing order on others in my dream.

In one of the dreams, someone who was in charge and outranked me began chastising me for some bizarre local rule. I’d taken my boots off. As punishment, he’d stolen in, taken my boots, wrapped them up in a package and hid them. Now revealing what he’d done, he began lecturing about their rules and procedures in a galling pedantic manner. I gathered from his ridiculing subtext that he thought he would emasculate me and put me in my place.

I didn’t accept the situation. I waited until he finished. Then I politely replied, “But I just arrived here this morning, hours ago. I think you should have set up an immediate orientation for me to know what was going on, if you want me to know your rules and follow them. Otherwise, you would just playing a silly game of ‘gotcha’.”

A person beside me leaned over and whispered, “Right on,” in my dream. Two other dreams from last night were of the same ilk, encouraging me to stand up for myself. Together, the three instilled greater confidence in me. It’s a wonderful sensation to awaken with the belief I know what I’m supposed to do and will do it.

Happy Tuesday, writers!

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