Category: Dreams

The Dream Brief

I had to face the bald facts.

That’s what I saw in one of my dreams last night.

In it, I was looking at myself in the mirror. There, I discovered that I was balding in an area that I’d not noticed before. Technically, it would have been a deeply receding hairline on the left side of my face.

“I didn’t notice that,” my dream self said, turning my head and examining my hairline.

To which my awareness said, “You need to look in a new direction because you’re missing something that’s going on.”

Isn’t that the way it often is? You’re used to doing something in a fixed way. It becomes rote habit, conducted without thought. They can stale on you, but you can’t see it, because you’re always looking at it the same way.

And by you, I mean, me.

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So Just

Illness interrupts life, if you’re fortunate. The less fortunate end up in hospital, hospice, or a grave. For me, the latest illness is an interruption to my usual routines.

  • Took a hot shower on day three, first since March 20.
  • Didn’t exercise or walk, achieving less than four thousand steps on each of the the first two days, far below my Fitbit goals.
  • Didn’t post, and barely read anything, until the third day.
  • Didn’t write, edit or revise. Didn’t address any publishing biz.
  • Didn’t do yard work, or go out anywhere, and scarcely kept up with the news.
  • Ate little but soup and buttered toast for the first several days, and drank large quantities of tea and hot water.
  • Binged season four of ‘Justified’ and advanced halfway through season five. No ‘Red Dwarf’ was available streaming. RD has been my sickness staple since the turn of the century. I have some of the DVDs and tapes, but it was easier to stream TV.

Being sick allowed some thinking time. I remembered that I’d dreamed of trying to help a general get to a hospital a few days before my illness, and wonder if I was attempting to warn myself. I dreamed a bunch when I was sick, about broken plumbing, stolen baseball gloves, fake roses, taking charge to organize people and processes, family, and flying.

I dreamed of flying a lot during the illness. It wasn’t like Superman and other superheroes would fly, horizontally, with their arms stuck out in front of them, as though diving, or with my arms swept back like wings. No, my flights were like I was walking through the air. I would step up into the air, find my direction, step toward it and be there.

There was some goofiness. I sang to myself. One of the things I sang was, “You say , “Meow,” and I say “Hello. Hello, hello.” I don’t know why you say meow, I say, “Hello.”” I just kept messing with the Beatles’ song, substituting meow for everything “you say”.

It was a mild illness in the relative spectrum of how these things go. The illness has faded to a harsh cough, a throat that’s sore when I cough, and some mucus. Energy is back up to about eighty-three percent of normal. The sensation I couldn’t get warm is gone, the aches have receded, and clarity has returned to thinking.

So just resume everything.

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A Dream of Lost Roads

I experienced several dreams last night. I remembered three this morning, but lost track of two of them, because a third dream occupied me.

In the third dream, I was attending a symposium with a female friend, Joan. I don’t recall what the symposium was about. I don’t think that was ever stated. When it ended, I suggested that we go get something to eat somewhere. She agreed. We had separate cars. She would follow me. Cool.

I headed down the road. I was driving an impressively expensive, exotic sports machine. The vehicles around me were older domestic American vehicles. Many weren’t in good condition.

The roads were terrible, and seemed to be getting worse. Within a few minutes of driving, I noticed Joan turned off from behind me. Where was she going? Finding a place to turn around, I went back to look for her. The roads were rapidly worse, degenerating from pavement, concrete or asphalt into rudimentary grassy, gravel trails. Yet, I thought, wait…I know this place.

I parked my car and exited it, looking around as I did. Although still daylight, it was late. The sun had set and dusk was growing. Less people were driving; more people were walking. Those walking were white, older, and obese, often with gray hair. From things said and seen, I knew I was in West Virginia. I’d spent my final high school years there, and then lived there once, for a year. I sometimes went back there because my wife has family there.

Walking around, I began orienting myself. Yes, I was right, I knew where I was. I was in the area where I’d gone to school, but all the businesses and roads were gone. People were walking everywhere.

The sky was indigo at the zenith, with a single bright star over the silhouette of the trees. A cool breeze picked up. I walked up a dirt trail to a small house on a hill. Painting white, it was peeling, had dirty windows and leaned to one side. It looked like it might have been built in the nineteen thirties and then had received poor treatment.

The people inside vaguely knew me. I knew of them but didn’t know them. We chatted about a dog and its owner, a man who ate poorly, but always ensured his dog had the best fresh meat for his meals. We laughed about that. I realized that one of the others was Red. Red, an ex-Marine, had stood trial for murdering his best friend, and was acquitted, even though it happened in a place locked from the inside, with no one else present. He had no memory of the event.

I asked about where I was, to confirm my conclusions. Yes, I was where I thought.

Leaving the little dilapidated hovel of a place, I started down the hill along the worn dirt trail. Remembering Joan, I returned to the house and asked to use their phone, to call my friend and find her location. Calling her, I saw a panel to one side. It had a full map of the area. When she answered the phone, it pinpointed her location with a bright, white star.

I told her that I knew where she was and where she needed to go, and gave her instructions. Then I hung up, thanked the others, and left, going back down the hill to meet my friend. Looking down the hill toward where I’d been before, I saw that all the roads were gone.

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General Dream

“This is General Hamilton.”

Sure, I believed that. I was in the military again in this dream. My cell phone had rung. I’d answered. The other end had asked for Sergeant Seidel. I told them that was me. That’s when they identified themself.

Their voice was a pleasant tenor. Yeah, right, I thought, hearing that, and disconnected. I didn’t know a General Hamilton, and why would he be calling me? I was in the middle of some large, busy military complex. It was indoors and very modern. Everyone was in U.S. Air Force uniforms. I believe the location was in Florida.

I told someone else that a person had called and said they were General Hamilton. I didn’t know who that was. “It’s the commander,” they replied. “A five-star.”

A five-star? Seriously, a five-star calling me on my cell phone? Right.

The cell phone rang again. I answered. “This is General Hamilton.”

I answered with who I was and explained that we must have been disconnected. I remained dubious about who I was talking to.

“No problem,” he answered. “How do I get to the hospital?”

Was this a joke? I looked around. A large base directory, like in a mall, was mounted to a wall. “Where are you, General?”

“I’m in my office.”

“Where’s that?”

He told me. I traced it on the map. He seemed like he was two minutes away by car. The conversation continued, with me trying to understand why he was calling me, what his question meant, and what sort of help he was looking for.

“You’re the one responsible for coordinating activities, aren’t you?” he said.

Yes, that was one of my duties. As I was talking, I was walking and looking around, assessing where I was, trying to think through the issue and looking for anyone or anything that might be of help. His question completely baffled me. A five-star doesn’t have problems getting from one part of the base to another.

He had to hang up. He promised to call me back in a few minutes. “Thank you, sir,” I answered, and starting moving and thinking with more focused purpose. I’d made my way to the area he was trying to reach as I’d been talking to him. I’d realized he was going there to attend a ceremony taking place. I further knew who the organizers were, so I was heading there to talk to them. Most of the walls were glass. Although security was tight and I was often challenged, my security passes allowed me complete access.

Reaching the location of the ceremony, I entered and looked around. Although in a glass building, rolling, lush green grass dominated. Birds were singing, and it was sunny, with a warm breeze.

I saw the officer I sought. She was just concluding a speech. I hurried toward her. As I did, two heavily-armed security officers stepped up to her. They started talking. Thinking they were about to give her some problems, I hastened to them, because I knew that although she outranked me, I had a special position, and I could intercede.

I arrived at the end of their conversation. They were telling her, “We just wanted you to know that your story moved us, and we’re here to help you in any way that we can. We’re all here to help you.”

The officer was wiping off tears and sniffing. “Thank you.”

The security officers nodded and left. I gathered that her speech had been a moving one about loss, and they’d been moved. I just had that as an insight as I looked at her.

I started adding my condolences but was aware that time was short. She cut me off anyway, complaining about being emotional. I then began explaining my issue. I struggled to get the words out. As I did, I inadvertently called General Hamilton, General Mood.

I was correcting myself when she replied, “I know who you mean. That’s a good name for him. He’s really particular about how he travels. He has a phobia. That’s why he’s asking you for help. He wants to come here but he wants to walk.”

The explanation stunned me but as soon as I heard her, I knew what to do. It was just in time. The cell phone rang. I answered.

“This is General Hamilton,” they said from the other end.

I identified myself, and then began explaining what he needed to do. In the course of that, I realized that I called him General Mood. I immediately heard the mistake, apologized and corrected myself. He laughed. “That’s not a problem.”

Others came up to the officer I’d been talking to. They were concerned that General Hamilton hadn’t arrived. “I’m on the phone with him,” I replied, which impressed everyone. Then, as I resumed explaining how he was to reach our part, I looked up and saw him arriving.

The end.

***

I’ve typed the dream out to remember it so I forget as little as possible. In remembering it, some clues about what it’s about spoke to me, but overall, I need time to process it.

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The Now Card

From my dream came the understanding I needed to enable me to push some struggles aside.

I’d conceived that only Now is real. There is no other time. You can ‘travel’ to another time but it’s Now, then. When you ‘travel’ like this – I’m uncomfortable saying ‘travel’ because that implies a physical movement, but I use it here for convenience while working out what term best suits – you’re shifting awareness of Now, not ‘traveling’ anywhere.

Semantics? Perhaps to some, but with important consequences. There’s only true awareness of Now, with an understood and accepted version of past events. These are what was passed on as history. Whether they’re true is another matter.

The future is a concept of what will probably happen, given the various arrows of time engaged. Some of those arrows are more strongly attached and fixed. Still, the future isn’t not necessarily what will be experienced. Except, we do not know; our expectations shifted without our awareness so the future that we experience is naturally what was expected. This is partially a biological and neurological survival mechanism.

To help me cope with the story telling, I conceived of a pack of cards to describe the scenes of ‘Now’ that emerge from Chi-particle looping and entanglements. Cards of ‘Now’ are being shuffled and dealt; these are then experienced. Fine, that was working out well. But I kept trying to adhere to a logical and chronological story-telling process. Yet the cards didn’t support that. I was struggling to reconcile the two aspects. They seemed diametrically opposed. Through my dream, I discovered that I’d carried my card analogy too far.

I’d thought of the looping Chi-particles and the resulting Nows as a deck of cards. They were shuffled and dealt. I saw this as players being around a poker table. Each card was dealt sequentially, around the table. That’s how the story would be told.

That was so flawed. The cards of Now being dealt do not have this order, consistency, predictability or tidiness. Instead of people sitting around being dealt hands of poker, one is being dealt poker, another is receiving a gin rummy hand, a third is playing hearts, a fourth is dealing solitaire, and so on. Each is both player and dealer. In the next hand, the person playing poker is now playing spades, and so on, but they’re struggling with that shift. Some vividly know they were playing poker and expected to continue playing poker. They don’t understand why they’re now playing solitaire.

That is a large part of how the entanglements emerge. We have beliefs of who we are, what happened, and what will happen next. The entanglements skewer every aspect. This creates a complex matrix of possibilities and story arcs. It’s difficult keeping them straight and then telling them in such a way, without elaborate explanation to the reader, so the reader grasps what is happening while the characters can’t grasp fully grasp it — although emerging grasps of what’s happening are part of the story.

Okay, time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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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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