Category: Dreams

One, Two, Three

Of the three dreams remembered from last night, the third was the most striking.

The first was of the usual military variety. Back on active duty, I’m to attend a planned changing of the guard ceremony, except I don’t have my ribbons and medals, and my uniform isn’t pressed. They specifically told us three days before that our uniforms needed to be pressed. Why didn’t I go out right away and have that done, I kept asking myself. There were others in the same situation. They asked the same question. Meanwhile, many people were rallying around us, trying to help us.

But I was distracted. There had been a death of someone close to me the Friday before. I don’t often dream of death, and my dream being struggled to cope with it.

The second dream was of the usual visual gibberish involving rising water. Streams, lakes, rivers, everywhere I went, I encountered rising brown water. While the images remind me this week of the scenes from I-5 flooding in Redding, the Oroville Dam situation, and other flood scenes in the news, the dream events didn’t disturb me. I always ‘knew’ I was protected but I worried about others. This is a variation of a regular dream that I’ve had for decades. I used some of the dream memories in ‘Everything in Black & White,’ a novel I wrote a few years ago but haven’t published. The hero encountered flooding and ended up encountering, fighting and saving other survivors. These were the first people he’d seen since the Great Collapse.

The third dream was something new and different for me. I was busy writing. Writing, writing, writing. I was writing on everything I could find. I was possessed to write.

The neighborhood residents were all helping me. They knew I was a writer and knew I was writing, but didn’t know what I was writing. But individuals would come to me with more scraps of paper, pens and notebooks to use so I could write. They fed me so I could write, and kept unobtrusively trying to keep me comfortable as I wrote. I lived in a large apartment with my family. We had several cats. A canal was outside of my apartment. People lived across the way, including a family from India. They were most watchful and helpful to me although I sensed they were poor and struggling.

They had two cats who had been injured. I took the cats in, fixed them up with robot exo-skeletons and nursed them to good health. One cat immediately rushed back to its people. I could see them receive it. The two children were very happy, and the mother knew I’d helped. A whole confused segment followed about their yard and improvements they made along the bank. My wife and I would stroll each day, see the changes, and discuss doing something similar.

But the second cat had disappeared. I was busy writing but found the cat living in my house. He’d grown to a very large size and had mastered walking upright. He rushed out of the house. I worried about where he was going and what would happen to him, so I followed.

All this time, I’m writing. I’m writing as I do everything. I stroll and write. I find a piece of paper and write. I follow the cat and write. I see the cat has made it home yet I feel compelled to go over and tell the people that the cat had been with me and safe. Before I can do that, the husband visits me. Young, he’s barefoot and very intelligent. His aura of calm intelligence awes me.

I’m sitting at a table writing. He gets on the table top to speak with me. He’s wearing gray sweat pants and a white tee shirt. It’s all so clean, it looks new. Lying on his side, he curls up and talks to me, smiling as he does. He challenges me with questions and challenges my answers with questions and observations. I don’t remember those details but as we’re talking, I’m writing. We talk for a while as I write but something happens and interrupts our visit. He leaves for his house across the canal.

After some thought, I decide to follow. The canal water has become much higher. It’s a narrow canal. I think about leaping it. I have new shoes on, though. A female friend present said, “I hope you’re not thinking about jumping that canal,” which is exactly what I’m thinking. She then keeps trying to convince me not to make the jump.

I don’t attempt the jump but instead attempt to cross via rocks. I misjudge the distances and end up in deeper water with my new shoes. But it’s all good.

I enter the people’s home. They’re busy in the back with the returned cat. I can hear that the children are very pleased. I’m an intruder and prepare to leave without fulfilling my mission of telling them what had happened with the cat. But I’m writing. And there is a typewriter. It’s  an old manual portable. I sit down and begin typing on it. I can’t help myself.

The young mother comes out. I apologize for using her typewriter and being there without permission. She dismisses my apology. I begin explaining who I am and why I’m there. She dismisses my explanation, telling me with a gentle smile, she knows who I am, and it’s fine. She offers food. I decline and state that I must leave. But she has made up the guest bed for me with soft downy blankets and sheets. No, I insist on leaving. “Then I must put the bedding back away,” she replies in a flirtatious manner, “after all this work that I’ve done.” “I’ll help,” I answer. She tells me that it’s not necessary but I pick up and fold a blanket.

But then I must write. Sitting down at the typewriter, I start typing.

The end.

 

 

 

 

0

Options

I dreamed of a swarthy man with drooping dark eyes.

Coal black hair was parted down the middle and cinched into a pony-tail. A trim black beard underlined his lean face. He was well dressed in a clean, modern style, with collared, starched Oxford shirt open at the neck and a simple, unbuttoned vest. He also wore a Bluetooth and was using it to converse with his staff.

He and I met in a cool, softly lit room. Without further prelude, I found him asking me what I wanted. Without being aware that I’d told him, he told his staff what I wanted, and I corrected him. As this was going on, he held out a pale green dinner plate. The plate was plain. On it was a small white piece of paper folded in half.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Your choices,” he replied, then spoke to his people via the Bluetooth.

I picked up the paper and unfolded it. It was blank. I asked, “Is this a joke?”

“No. Words would limit you. Everything is your option.”

A short, white woman wearing a bright red dress entered. She glanced at me and then focused on the black-haired man. “She seeks help, too,” he said.

He began speaking to her. Turning away, I saw several white pub tables set up around the room. Gold coins and red rose petals were strewn and mounded on the tables.

“Help yourself,” the man said.

A white canvas bag was in my hand. I slide some gold and petals into the bag. He urged me to take more. I declined, adding, “I want to leave some for others.” Yet, I saw that whatever I had taken was already being replenished. Like mounds were appearing on other tables. People were entering and filling their backs.

The black-haired man shook his head. “There’s enough for others. There are no limits. It’s infinite.”

Taking my bag, I drifted out of the room and told myself, “I need to remember this.”

Someone unseen replied, “You will.”

0

Today’s Theme Music

Did anyone else feel that last night? Felt like a giant rubber band had been stretched to its limit. Now, snap, it was released. A shift took place.

Perhaps it’s only a personal shift. I awoke this morning feeling fantastic, like I’m twenty years younger. I slept well and experienced deep and clear, OMG amazing dreams. Feels different for me today, though. I hope others encounter this feeling of change, too. It’s a fine elixir and an awesome way to start a day. Yes, even better than coffee.

In honor of the changes I feel, I searched the mental cloud for a song that felt right and pulled on out of the file marked ‘Feb, 1996’. One of the hot groups then was Smashing Pumpkins. This song of theirs, about Billy Corgan’s coming of age when he was twelve, feels about right. It was a different sound for the Pumpkins; I like it.

Here is ‘1979’.

0

The Dream Car

My dream memories are weakening. Perhaps as a subset of aging, we begin forgetting our dreams. Perhaps our dreams are the reality, and we’re forgetting reality. Maybe both are reality and both are dreams. Can we hold those two ideas in our heads?

Either way, I remember dreaming last night but don’t recall much of them. Perhaps that’s because I slept almost seven and a half hours. The dream I remember features an enterprise being conducted in my garage. I was recovering and re-furbishing junk and trash with other people. They were at a loss about what to do with it. But I was like, “Just fix it up and put a price on it. That’s what I do. Don’t overthink it. Just price it and forget it, and people will buy it.”

The garage, a double car space, was well-lit. One of my recovered treasures was a car parked alongside me. The car was an almost mint 1965 Ford Mustang convertible. I’d found it and fixed it. Now it was mine.

I had it in the garage but pulled forward. Behind it, in the garage, I’d spread a large blanket on which I’d collected and worked on items. Working on something small in my hand, cleaning it and putting it back together, I was absently answering questions posed by another. I neither remember the questions nor the questioner, nor my answers. What I recall is that some copper metallic exotic car rolled past with a howl of sound outside. And I paused to watch and identify it. I don’t know what make the car was, only that it was rare and expensive, which I was telling my companion, laughing as I did, wondering why such a car was in this neighborhood.

Then the exotic car returned. Slowing, the unseen driver executed a u-turn in the street but didn’t drive away. “Ah, they’re looking at the car,” I said as I realized it. “They’re impressed with this old Mustang.” As they should be, I thought, looking at the car. White, its top was down. It was rust-free, with clean lines, and waxed and polished.

“I should sell that,” I said, realizing that others would want this car, and then smiled, pleased that I had such a car.

0

The Note

I dreamed, of course, several dreams, but they’re broken today and heap in my head like pieces of broken glass.

One dream fragment is best remembered. It’s dim and busy with the red-black-amber noisy ambiance of a late night club. I’m handed a note. I don’t see who hands it to me but I thank them. The note is folded. My full name is typed in twelve pitch Times New Roman font in black on the front. I’m surprised, pleased, and giddy to be receiving this note. Unfolding it, I read my future history in typewritten paragraphs.

And that thrills me. I’m so excited. But now, I remember none of it. I only remember that I was handed a note with my name typed on it.

2

Dream-Peat

I dreamed three dreams last night. There were repeats of dreams I’ve dreamed before. Like watching a movie more often, more details have developed, or are noticed and retained.

The dreams involve me to different degrees. I’m heavily involved in the first dream, less involved in the second one, and I’m almost phased out wholly by the third. The third dream is mostly about black women getting on an aircraft. The aircraft is a C-5 Galaxy. They’re happy and excited about a journey they’re about to take. I’m happy and excited for them, too, but most of my involvement is listening to them and seeing close-up shots of all those happy people going on a journey.

The first one, that so involved me, was mostly adventure. About me and a group escaping, and then exploring, the dream begins after the escape. I don’t know what we’re escaping. The group is small. We find a cold, icy place to stay until we’re rescued. Once we’re in that place, we discover there are items left behind, and that we’re in what was once a military post. Then we learn the post isn’t entirely abandoned. Little by little, we slip in and integrate, making use of things we see the military using. The military isn’t malicious or anything; they’re simply there, going about their business as it’s been on so many military bases I visited.

No family was in the dream. So it goes. I never feel threatened or frightened in the dream. I’m a little wary initially but that changes quickly as I relax and gain confidence. By the end, when I’m using the military’s stuff, part of them but not one of them, I’m a confident leader.

The second dream is a lame sequel to the first, almost like a set-up to the third. There’s abstract discussions about what happened – “We survived, we found this place, now we can help others” – and sort of a montage of things like that being done. Then, it’s on to the third dream.

I write about the dreams to understand them. Frankly, I don’t. They seem hopeful but beyond that, I can sketch any number of meanings to them. All those meetings would have strength, weakness, logic and flaws to my interpretations. I sometimes think I should devote more time to understanding them but I see that as a major investment in time. I like to guard my time and routines.

Which brings me around to my conclusion. Do my dreams need to have significance, meanings, or portends to other matters? Perhaps it’s sufficient to accept, I dreamed. My mind has cleared some clutter from my thinking. Maybe it’s like organizing the attic; “Oh, here we have some leftover stuff. Where should we put it?” “Stick it in a dream.” “Oh, okay.”

It’s odder and a little more intriguing that I have repeat dreams. Do I have some frozen synapses causing the same images, sounds, ideas and stories to circulate through my mind? Such thoughts trigger comparisons to similarities in my writing. I often address time, memory, reality, technology and alienation in my fiction writing, whether it’s the mystery series or the science-fiction novels.

This leads to insights and suspicions. Perhaps I need more outside input and stimulus. I’m in ruts of living and writing, constrained by others’ health issues, concerns and worries, and have been for some time. Perhaps my dreams are a reflection of my ‘real’ situation, and that’s why they’re repeating, and why I’m so little involved. I’m often a spectator within my own life, another rider on the train.

Not too long ago, I read an article about a woman who often fantasizes during the day. Her pattern of thought developed when she was a child but she realized she continued them as an adult, and that they were connected to regular activities. She recognized that when she does certain activities, she likewise engages in fantasies, and they’re often the same or similar fantasies.

Becoming more interested in what she was doing and why, she searched for evidence that others were doing something like this, and found she wasn’t alone in this habit.

Well, I could have told her that; I also do this.

At first, this behavior was helpful in falling asleep. I engage it and knew it as a way to shut off my brain so I could sleep and rest. Later, I extended it and began engaging to turn off my brain from other issues. I’ve always recognized it as a coping practice to de-stress, but they’re also a way to engage my subconscious mind to think, develop solutions and ideas. These fantasies are harmless, about designing survival places, trains or ships, but I can see parallels to my dreams, and to my fiction writing practices.

In a curious way, I begin to view myself as a pie. Then we can slice me up into my various activities and realms – writing, sleeping and dreaming, walking and living, interacting with others. When I begin doing that, I can see how the whole fits together in a larger pattern. I can see my limitations and frustrations, and how they manifest themselves through fiction writing, daytime activity fantasies, and yes, nocturnal dreams. I can see how other dreams were wish-fulfillment that I matter more than I do, that I have a starring role in something, somewhere, that I am not just another blink of consciousness among the trillions of blinks on Earth.

For better or worse, the dreams are part of the whole necessary to complete me. That isn’t a permanent or complete answer, nor even a deep insight. It’s just another glimpse of an entity and a life.

It just happens to be a very personal view.

 

0

Today’s Theme Music

Weird dream last night, featuring ear wax. Ear wax! I was so thrilled that this ear wax came out of my ear, like a quarter teaspoon of ear wax. The way I acted in the dream, excited and pleased, it was like I’d found a bonanza. And my friends and family with me were also very excited, gathering around to look huddle and wonder with hope, “Is there more in there?”

Oddly, too, the dream, or circumstances, lead me to awaken with a song in the mental iPod. It’s a song that means little to me, so I pulled it up, looking for connections to my earwax dream or my life. Found nothing. I blame the song’s presence in my head to serendipity. Between the song and the ear wax, it’s a strange morning.

But in thinking about that song and the dream and their connections with my life, another song arose in the playlist. I like it better, so here it is.

Say hello to John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band presenting ‘Instant Karma’ in 1970. It’s a song I sometimes hold onto as a hope and a wish when I see people mistreating, killing, abusing and cheating others.

Oh, but to dream.

 

0

Disjointed

Last night’s dreams must be characterized as disjointed. They seemed to jump from scene to scene. Funny enough, that’s also my writing practice. Maybe one is a mirror of the other.

The dreams themselves were also fun, exciting and inspirational. As far as I can tell from the jumbled pieces, I was a racing driver, there was some heavy rain and flooding occurring, and I was being permitted into special places where others can’t go.

In our first program, titled, “Racing”, I was with another young man. We were exuberant fellows. As part of a project, we were going around giving presentations to others. I never saw one of the presentations but was aware they were happening, or had happened. He and I were casually dressed in neat sporting clothes. We would talk about what was to be done and laugh. This was happening through the progression of a season, I discovered. Then I discovered it was a Formula One racing season, and I’d won the first two races. Apparently, this was unexpected by anyone, as I was the younger and the accepted number two driver. But nobody was bothered; all were happy and pleased with my success, celebrating it more than I celebrated it.

As part of our traveling presentation show, we went somewhere special. I knew that another person, a female relative that I wanted to see, was nearby but wasn’t quite sure where she was. There was a large white building, which was apparently a school. That’s where I thought she was.

So I stole into the building alone. Inside was as white as the outside. I found classes going on and saw her. I watched the class for a short period and then began exploring the building. There seemed only one way out. I became intent on finding another way. That drove me to slip down into a lower level. It was supposed to be off-limits. There weren’t any exits there but there were secret rooms. As I was exploring them, I was caught by white-garbed employees. One accosted me for being there, but the other corrected him. “No, it’s cool. He’s not supposed to be here, but it’s okay, because he’s special.” They then left me alone. I kept exploring and actually found the exit I sought.

I walked into another dream. In this one, I was watching a swollen brown river. Tumultuous with energetic flood waters, it was perhaps one hundred to two hundred yards away and not threatening to me at all, but was threatening others. The river was located in a valley. I  stood on a road that led to the river. Others were present, too. The river had clearly overflowed its banks and had wiped out the bridge that was supposed to be there, because the road continued on the other side.

I knew it was destined to get worse. Following the road with my eyes, I could see the road rise toward some hills on the other side of the river. Those hills alone were dark with rain. There were three hills. As I watched, I noticed streaming silver lines forming on the hills, one on each hill. I knew those were new floods. I was with a man, who was apparently my guide. I pointed the streams and hills out to him, along with the flooding. “It’s going to get worse,” I said and saw that yes, those three silver streams were thicker and more visible, and were obviously increasing flood waters. The rain was clearly increasing on the hills, as well.

Turning away from that, I went toward another building. I can’t remember anything of that building. I was not quite expected there but, recognizing me and my name, they made an exception, and welcomed me. I was there to see a man. He was considered a young genius. I had some ideas to present to him. I had to wait for him as others went about their tasks in a flow around me. While waiting, I discovered the teams I’d driven for were McLaren and Ferrari. I was surprised, pleased and impressed, for they represented two of the most respected and oldest teams in Formula One racing.

Then the man I was there to see came out and found me. I apologized for being there, but he waved that off, telling me he was excited that I was there. He’d heard about my ideas and had been waiting to meet me and discuss them in person, so he was very happy that I had arrived.

So I awoke thinking, Wow, aren’t I special? Then reality returned, and I went off to pee and feed the cats.

1

Unusual Dream

I dream a lot. I remember a lot of dreams. My dreams tend toward consistent themes, symbols, objects and settings. That makes them comfortable and helpful. So this dream, last night, was different.

One, I wasn’t in it.

Two, it was about aliens.

I don’t dream usually dream about aliens. Perhaps I have and I don’t remember it now. Maybe I will with more thought.

The dream was odd in its structure, too. My voice was in the dream but I wasn’t ever seen. No people were seen. No creatures were seen.

Short, the dream opened with a screen. It felt tense. On the screen was a black and white maze with thick black lines around fat white alleys. “What is this?” I can be heard to ask. Others can be heard asking the same question.

It’s material, I realize. This isn’t a maze; it’s a diagram of materials. “It’s the aliens,” I hear someone say.

“You’re right,” I answer, having an epiphany. “It’s the aliens. They’re going to show us how they’ll do it.”

The screen changed as I spoke. Some of the white maze alleys inflated and changed color, becoming aubergine. “They’re applying heat,” I said. “The materials are reacting to the heat. They want us to know what they’re going to do and how they do it.”

“Oh,” others said, agreeing and understanding.

The alien screen returned to its original configuration. The entire process was repeated.

“But why?” someone asked. “What are they showing us?”

Watching the maze, I realized, “That’s them. Part of the maze is them. Or they are part of the maze. Applying heat changes the structure. That isolates them. Then they’ll be able to safely mind meld with us.”

“Ahhh,” others said.

I was satisfied in the dream, whereupon I awoke, clueless about what it means. This is going to require a lot of reflection.

I may need more coffee.

0

Dreamy Advice

Once again, my dream life has been active.

The first ‘remembered’ dream amuses me. As a loud voice spoke from some unseen space, I was told, “Drink more water.” The visual accompanying it showed me in a dark place, pissing like a race horse.

Okay, I’ll drink more water.

The other dream…hmm. I had three dreams with the same characters and message.

I was part of a group. Dressed in suits and ties, I was aware that others were present but only actually knew of myself and my leader, who was my boss, in one group. The other group was just one person, the boss, also in a business suit.

Each of these dreams were variations of the same scene and message. Each time, my group was told to report to the boss because something wasn’t going as expected. Each time, my immediate boss, in my group, would, with deadpan humor, assure the rest of us that it wasn’t anything to worry about because his boss didn’t know what was going on, and that we’re not to worry about it.

Then we would go in, as directed and meet with the boss. Dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt, his sleeves would be rolled up. He wore a tie but the tie would be loose. He would be at a desk and at once launched in a profane condemnation of what was going on, mocking our attempts to “change,” while decrying our ignorance, stupidity and general witlessness.

My immediate boss listened with aplomb and then dismissed him by saying, “You’re living in the past. You don’t know what’s going on. You will never know.” That infuriated his boss, even while it delighted me.

As I said, I had variations of this same dream three times, awakening after each time and thinking about it. I was amused by my dream’s direct approach about needing change.

It’s given me a lot to think about. Meanwhile, I need to drink a glass of water.

 

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑