Category: Dreams

A Dark & Stormy Dream

Awakening this morning, I was surprised. Sunshine was flowing into the bedroom.

Where was the dark rain?

I listened to the house’s silence. Wednesday, I thought, considering my plans.

No, Sunday, I corrected myself.

I’d expected night, rain, and Wednesday because that’s what I dreamed. Alternatively, maybe that was a different reality embracing me — which I thought was a dream — and now I’m back here again, where it was sunny, daylight, and Sunday. It’s something to contemplate.

The dream had leaned toward the odd side. My wife and I were with many others. We’d gone somewhere where I was to receive a prize and she was to be honored at a dinner. Pretty exciting stuff.

Meanwhile, I was eager to continue writing another novel which I was working on. But first, the dinner.

We’d all parked. I had my black RX-7. It was night, pitch black, and pouring rain. Despite those circumstances, it was a boisterous crowd streaming into the festivities. I knew many and was busy waving, calling out greetings to friends, and laughing.

We got into the hall’s foyer, a lovely warm, tall, and pink marble place with thick carpeting and golden chandeliers. As I chatted with friends, my wife moved away from me, but I could still see her. I called to her so we could go in and find our table.

She turned back around. Shock was on her face. I went to her and asked what was wrong.

“Doctor D is dead,” she answered.

Others approached us, inquiring if all was okay. I explained to them what she’d told me and who Doctor D was to her. Meanwhile, I wondered how she’d received the news; I’d been watching her. Nobody talked to her and she wasn’t on the phone.

Using our coats to protect our heads from the rain, we hustled through the dark rainy night back to my black car. Many other cars were already started and moving, shiny dark shapes, filling the air with exhaust smoke and startling me, because I thought they were staying for the dinner. While wondering why they weren’t I started entering my car.

Another person called to me. Sitting in her car, her window partially down, she explained that she was trying to use her computer writing program but it was asking for a code. She didn’t know how to get a code.

“Yes, you need a code,” I said. She replied that she’d never heard of that, and I said, “I think I can get one for you.”

Returning to my car, I started it and plugged my computer in, then typed some keys.

A series of red characters came up on a black screen. I memorized them and ran through the drenching rain to the other person. “Here, put these numbers in.” When she was ready, I repeated what I’d memorized.

We had to do this twice. I worried that I’d gotten the numbers wrong but it worked after the second time. “Good,” I said, and she replied, “Thank you.”

Head and shoulders hunched, I dashed back to the car. My wife was inside it, waiting. The rain cut visibility like a sheet had been tossed over the world.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

She looked at me. “You’re not wet.”

The dream ended.

First, after dreaming this and thinking about it, I eventually fired up my ‘puter. When I checked Facebook for messages from friends and family, FB showed me a post under its “Memories” category; it was the photo I shared in this post. I thought it a stretch as a coincidence to dream of a car that I haven’t owned in over eight years and see a picture of it on the same morning.

I liked that car a great deal, owning it for almost twenty years. A 1993 Mazda R1, it’d been bought as a gift to myself in 1996 after I’d retired from the military in 1995 and landed a good-paying job with a civilian company, a medicial device startup in Silicon Valley. The car reminded me of that life era, and how much my life changed at that point.

All that rain and darkness intrigued me. Despite that, we’d been very happy. I was getting a prize, and my wife was being honored. The mood quickly changed with news of a doctor’s death, but I don’t know of that doctor in real life, so that left me puzzled.

Overall, I don’t have any strong grasp on any insights about the dream. As always, it could be Neurons just having fun, or some weird neural scrambling brought on by unknown causes.

That’s how it goes with my dreams. If anyone can tell me what it means, it’d be appreciated.

2

Another Driving Dream

In this dream, I’d driven to a pre-arranged place where I met up with friends.

I was younger, in my twenties, I think, and the others’ age was in that same realm. While I knew everyone in the dream and considered them a friend, only one was a real life friend. This was my sister-in-law, B, who I’ve known since I was in tenth grade in high school.

We were meeting as a group to decide where to go. A brief discussion led to someone suggesting, “Let’s go to southern California.”

“Yes, let’s go to San Diego,” another said.

Further discussion changed our destination to La Jolla.

Pushback rose. “La Jolla? It’s nice but there’s nothing there.”

“There’s the ocean,” others answered. La Hoya was confirmed as where we were going.

I’d been to La Jolla a few times. Once on vacation with my wife, and three other times when my employer, US Surgical Corporation, sent me for trade shows. I like the small and picturesque place. Going there pleased me.

I asked, “Are we all driving?” Because we’d all driven cars there. It seemed to me that one reason we’d met was to share cars, letting us share driving, too, and cutting cost, not just in money, but in what our driving did to the environment. My car was a large black BMW hybrid sedan.

Nobody seemed to hear my question. All seemed busy just gabbing. I called, “Does anyone want to go with me?” Again, there wasn’t any response.

I went to my car to prepare to leave. Part of that was trying to attach an fabric doughnut pillow to my car’s rear. Even in the dream, I wasn’t sure why I was doing this, but, paradoxically, it was important to me in the dream.

The doughnut was attached. Onlookers were impressed, and thought my solution clever. Worries were rising for me that the doughnut would be dragged along the roads and ruined. So I worked on it more, becoming satisfied at least.

Returning to my group, I asked once again, “Does anyone want to ride with me?”

Damian, a young man, said, “I will, if you’re offering.”

“Great,” I replied. “I’m over there.”

I was walking, talking, and pointing as this went on. Damian was on his back. I noticed several others in the group were on their backs, awake and talking, but looking up. Possessions and cluttered surrounded them.

Eager to get on the road, I went to my car, slid into the driver’s seat, and waited for Damian to appear. Impatience growing, I finally got out and went looking for him.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said after I found him. “I’m going to drive myself.”

Exasperated, I called out, “Does anyone else want to ride with me?”

“I will,” my sister-in-law answered. “Where you parked?”

After showing her, I headed back to my car to wait. I was pleased she was going to ride with me because I enjoy her company.

That’s where the dream ended.

My first thought was that the BMW isn’t a cheap ride. But does that signify anything? No, The Neurons replied, except is has value.

Most of my focus went to the frustration of trying to get the seven of us moving. Why seven, I wondered, and why my sis-in-law.

My SIL is someone who I respect. Things weren’t going well for her after high school graduation, but she changed directions and reinvented herself. I admire the willpower and determination she asserted in those years. She’s a confident and charismatic person.

As for seven, I undersand it’s supposed to be one of those spiritual, powerful numbers. Doing some research on the net, I saw that it can mean you’re on the right path.

From all this, I created an explanation that I’m on the right path for what I want to achieve, but I’m exasperated by my slow progress, and that it’s messier than I like. But if I focus, as SIL did, I can make it.

Either that, or The Neurons are playing mind games with me again.

0

The Maze Dream

This dream began as a military variation.

I was in the US Air Force in the dream, as I had been for twenty plus years in real life. Arriving at a new assignment, I was created warmly by new co-workers. They’d been looking forward to my arrival.

After settling into a room, I change into my uniform to go meet my new commander. My pants an shirt were crisply sharp and mustache and hair cut were aligned with regulations. Very satisfying. Putting on my highly polished shoes, I discovered I had no shoe strings.

No shoe strings. The situation flummoxed me. How could I have shoes with the strings to tie them?

It was late, I had an appointment, and nothing was open to buy new laces. But needing shoe strings, I went around fast, knocking on doors and talking to people, looking for shoe strings to borrow. I found a pair of shoes with purple shoe strings but rejected them; purple shoe strings with a dress uniform wouldn’t work. I’d rather go without shoe strings.

Co-workers came to the door, urging me to hurry. I told them about my problem with the thought one of them may be able to help me.

They laughed it off and urged me not to worry because I wouldn’t be needing my shoes. Plans were afoot (sorry) for me to wear different clothes and footwear.

Mystified by that, I went with them.

I met the commander, a light colonel. After welcoming me, he immediately asked, “Didn’t they tell you about your new assignment?”

“No details,” I answered, hiding confusing.

He chortled and gestured. “We’re going to make you big. Then you an help monitor the maze and guide people through it.”

Those words completely confused me but I reigned that it and responded with a respectful, “Sir?”

Seeing my confusion, he continued smiling and answered, “You’ll see.”

The next I knew, I was very large. I guess I was twenty-five feet high and proportionately as broad as a fit young man. No longer appearing as I had, I’d lost my mustache, and was very pale skinned, with short, razor-cut hair. My clothing and shoes were now tight black pants, a tight white tee shirt, and black canvas shoes.

And I was in a maze.

Lined with white cement, the waist rose to about my waist. The walls were about a foot thick. I could see people wandering through the maze. I then understood, oh, I’m supposed to be helping them because they can’t see where they are, nor where they should go. Others large individuals, like me, male and female, of various ethnicities were finding lost individuals and calling out directions abut where to go.

Finding a young woman near me in the maze, I began doing the same.

Dream end

I often have dreams which focuses on my military career. I always think of it as a subconscious yearning for that period of life, which was ordered and structured, but also full of purpose and direction.

The twists, of needing shoe laces, and then becoming a large person, helping others through a maze, were quite unique in my dream experiences. I arrived at the conclusion that I’m trying to tell myself that I’m worrying about something which doesn’t matter, and that I’m ‘bigger’ than that. It’s not others I’m helping through the maze, but myself.

Or The Neurons were yet again just messing with me.

0

The Twelve Powers Dream

Last night’s featured dream included me as a young man. I put myself in my early twenties, with thick brown hair, my brown military ‘stach, tight skin, and a fit physique. Wasn’t in the military, but looked like me when I was in the military.

However, I wasn’t using my real life name. Instead of Michael, I was Richard when I was male, but also knew my name as Adley when I was female. I never was female in the dream, but I knew that as my female name, because I sometimes became a female.

I didn’t know anyone else’s name in the dream.

It began, strangely, with an awakening. I’d been busy with some undefined matters when recent memories were unearthed. From them, I realized that I’d been part of a project. In this project were twelve people who had special powers to change things. That included changing reality by modifying the past, present, and future. We collaborated in various ways as a team of twelve.

The twelve were male and female, insofar as I knew, and all young people into their mid-twenties. We didn’t all usually work at the same place and time, though.

We did wear a sort of uniforms, black pants with a square green tunic. I don’t think I knew the others’ names because the project didn’t want us to develop relationships.

The Project’s goal was to fix things that had gone wrong with the world. When I was part of it, we’d restored water to drought areas, and used our powers to collect trash from the sea and destroy it. To do this effectively, we’d be located in separate locations. This was based on the project’s calculations of how to best accomplish our goals. Everything was sharply compartmentalized.

From my new memories, I understood that the twelve had been reduced to seven. I’d been part of the seven. That was done because the released five didn’t work with us. Their ideas about how to fix the world didn’t match with the rest of us.

Then I learned that I’d been cut, along with all but one. After we’d been cut, access to our memories about the project were curtailed. Apparently, those memories were now restored because there was a problem with the project.

When everyone was cut, a three-year-old toddler was retained. This child had a remarkable ability to remake the world. More powerful than the rest of us powers, project management had concluded that one power was easier to guide, especially since this was a child.

I’d never known there was a child on the project. I usually worked alone, so I was immensely surprised.

Unfortunately, as the child’s powers exponentially grew, the toddler became willful, and, well, evil and destructive. They were doing whatever they wanted; the course the child followed would soon destroy the world. Stopping him was why I and five more were brought back.

We were watching this curly-haired white child as I remembered this information.

Realizing what was happening, I pulled a handgun. As the others gaped, without hesitating, I shot the child.

My peers were horrified. A woman said, “You shot him. You shot a child. Why do you even have a gun?”

“For things like this,” I retorted. “But it didn’t do much. Look.”

All six of us with powers were watching. In the men’s clothing section of a carpetted department store, the power child, shot through the chest, was staggering around between clothing racks filled with dark suits, but not bleeding. I was shocked and sickened.

“We can’t kill him,” another power said.

That confirmed what I’d guessed. I’d read the project manual. Killing us, the powers, if necessary was listed in one section, if that’s what it took if something went wrong. I believed that the project had already attempted to kill the child before they brought the rest of us back.

I suggested to the other five powers that I grapple with the child, power to power. Two others with powers mocked and criticized the idea. One, a male, said, “You can’t. Your powers aren’t not as strong as him.”

“I agree,” I answered, “my powers aren’t as strong, but they’re pretty good. Plus, I’m older than him, with more experience, and I think I’m smarter than him.”

“Still,” another power, a female said, “you can’t beat him.”

Impatiently I shook my head, irritated that they didn’t grasp what I was thinking. “I don’t want to beat him. I just want to stall and distract him so that the project and the rest of you can figure out how to stop him.”

“I’ll help you,” another male power said. “Two must be better than one.”

I agreed. At that point, the child charged us. With a hand wave, he brought the building smashing down.

Instantly countering, I restored the building and flipped the child upside down. I knew the child always worked through other things. Directly working him instead of things around him, would delay and distract him, in my reasoning.

Grasping what I was doing, the power helping me spun the child and wrapped in layers of clothing. Soon he was the center of a ball of shirts, pants, and suits.

Unfortunately, that’s where the dream ended.

Awakening, I thought a great deal about the dream. While flattering to be cast as someone with power to change the world, I thought it a manifestation of wishful thinking, given the course of recent world events and our inability to take decisive action on global problems. The child represents those who would destroy the world without concern for themself or anyone in the world.

0

Wednesday’s Theme Music

Mood: restrained

Wednesday, October 11, 2023, has landed in Ashlandia, where the cats are good-looking and the dogs are above average.

Rain showers are in today’s formula. But sunshines is also being ladled in. Despite the sun, our temp. now is 48 F and we’re only anticipating a 53 F high. Leaves are departing trees at this point. Autumn is cranking it into another gear.

We’ve started a new jigsaw puzzle, found in the Library of Things in Ashland yesterday. The puzzle features a lovely little creek tumbling over rocks in a forest. Boulders are on one side, while golden trees are on the other, a scene from our park which we’ve passed numerous times. Scripted words say, ‘Ashland, Oregon’ in two large lines at the top and ‘Upper Falls, Ashland Creek’, in two smaller lines at the bottom. It’s a fall scene, which fits right in.

Opening the piece, we found a note: “Missing piece”. It’s like, oh, curses.

We always begin with the edge and then build from there. It’s my wife’s favorite part. She usually drops out after that until it comes to finishing it.

Knowing a piece is missing, though, is a problem. Like, I’m putting the border together, and — ahem — a piece seems to be missing. But is it missing? I could just be doing the puzzle wrong. Or it can still be undiscovered in the box.

I’ve vowed that I’m going to mark the box’s front with the point that a piece is missing, and put a note inside telling where the missing pieces goes.

Today’s music comes from The Neurons. Weird dreams inspired them. Part of them was a military dream. Though dressed in a uniform, I desired better uniforms. To get them, I had to walk a tightrope, which I was doing well, but the other tightropes extended from the one I was on. With each step, the lights went lower until I was walking in almost full darkness, feeling with my feet.

Out of that came the admonition, “Take it slow.”

That’s a line from a Twenty-one Pilots song. Remembering it, I recalled a “Heathens/Stranger Things” mashup they did live in Romania in 2022, and went looking for it. “Heathens” was released as a single from Suicide Squad, a movie. “Stranger Things” is a popular Netflix streaming show. The mashup between them is terrific. “Take it slow” are lyrics from “Heathens”.

All my friends are heathens, take it slow
Wait for them to ask you who you know
Please don’t make any sudden moves
You don’t know the half of the abuse

All my friends are heathens, take it slow (watch it)
Wait for them to ask you who you know (watch it)
Please all my friends are heathens, take it slow (watch it)
Wait for them to ask you who you know

h/t to musimixmatch.com via Google.

Since “Heathens” was circulating in the morning mental music stream (Trademark ponderous), I though I’d find the mashup and gift it all to you.

Hot, black coffee is being sipped as raindrops tat the pane behind me. Stay positive, be strong, and take it slow. Here I go, launching into another day. Enjoy the music. Cheers

0

The Organic Machine Dream

I had a plethora of dreams last night. This was one of the more interesting to me.

I was a younger man. I looked and acted like I was in my thirties, thirty years plus younger than my real life age. But I looked like myself from that time, tanned, thick brown hair, fit and sender.

Life was keeping me busy and active, reading, writing, playing softball and racquetball, hurrying around, doing errands and talking to people.

During all of that, I came to meet someone. I can’t describe them because I never saw them. Nor can I tell you how they sounded because I heard them, but they were speaking and not speaking.

They had interrupted what I was doing to tell me that I was part of a machine. Confusion was my reaction. Further explanations followed that they had created a machine which was wholly organic. I asked them if the were aliens but I don’t recall an answer to that question.

At that point, though, I was busy and just wanted to get on with everything and hustled off. Later, I stopped to get coffee. They accosted me to say again that I was part of the machine. I didn’t understand what they’d said, and asked for clarification. They launched a long and detailed explanation that they were using humans for many features in an organic machine which they’d created, and that I was one of two individuals who’d been selected as the brains.

While flattered, I thought they could have made a better choice for their brain than me, and told them so.

They countered that the functioning they needed from me was far above my conscious thinking level, or the subconscious. I first asked if drinking coffee with caffeine would affect the brain and the machine, and joked about their machine getting hyper from too much caffeine.

They answered that none of that affected it because the brain function they were employing was beyond an organic level.

That prompted me to retort, “Your organic machine is using parts of humans which aren’t organic?” I laughed at that.

They seriously responded, “Yes.”

I asked them if they were talking about the Id, ego, and super-ego, trying to comprehend it. They replied that it was beyond those levels as well, pushing me to ask what was beyond that level?

They asked me if I wanted to see the machine. Enthusiastially, I replied, “Sure.”

“You’re standing in it,” they replied.

Confusion and suspicions squirted up in me. I’d been outside, among trees and buildings, cars, utility wires, streets, and businesses. Now I was in a glistening pink edifice with tall, vaulted areas, reminding me of the inside of a pink church.

“How did I get here?” I asked.

“You were always here.”

That made me think of the movie, The Matrix. Before I could speak, they asked if I wanted to see my part.

“Yes.”

They told me to go further in. Not feeling anything but curiosity, I did, walking until I reached an intersection. Ahead were two pink tubes, which reminded me of short smokestacks. Five feet tall, they were about two feet in diameter.

“Where do I go now?” I asked.

“That’s it, you’re here. You’re the brain on the left.”

I looked at tubes. “Those are brains?”

“Yes, they just need the energy. We wanted to tell you and show you because as your brain changes, our brain will grow more powerful. As it grows more powerful, you will become more intelligent and powerful, and then, so will it. As each of you change and grow, you’ll feed the other. We thought you should be aware of that”

Dream end.

I have no idea what this dream was about. I woke up feeling surprised. Thinking about the dream, I concluded, “That was different.” I wanted to just dismiss it but instead felt compelled to keep thinking about it, as though I was preparing for more to come. Intrigued, part of me thinks, wow, some power is informing me that I’m going to go through great changes. A more cynical aspect thinks that’s highly dubious; it’s just random neurons firing parts of my brain as I sleep.

I’ll let you know if more of the dream ever does come.

2

Another Military Dream

Been some months since I’ve had a military dream. I was in the military for twenty-one years, and the military formed my life structure for those years. I first joined in October, 1975, so I shouldn’t be surprised that The Neurons are fostering dreams about that segment of my life.

The dream found me a young man again. I was traveling in my office work blues with my fruit salad on my chest, and going alone. I’d arrived somewhere to make a connection with a civilian airline. I was expected but needed to get to the airline counter to check in, pay for the ticket, receive the ticket and boarding pass, and check my bag.

In a line to enter the terminal with others, I thought I heard my last name called. I looked around at the twenty-something individuals outside doing things. Some seemed to be looking for something but that’s not indicative of anything in an airport. No one called me again. I decided I’d imagined it.

Then I heard it again. Twice. Looking again, I called out, “Did anyone call Seidel?”

People weren’t paying attention. Raising my voice, I repeated my question. Others shook their heads.

By now, the line into the terminal had moved on without me. My flight time was getting disturbing close and I was way behind where I wanted to be.

I heard my name called again. It seemed like it was right behind me.

I whirled. A woman in a marigold shirt was there. I asked, “Did you say something? Are you looking for someone?”

She replied, “I said, ‘sigh’.”

‘Sigh’ sounds just like the first syllable of my last name. “Why did you say that?” I asked her.

She gestured at the scenery beyond the airport. Blue skies, and an ocean vista of whitecaps and splashed sunshine. “Look how beautiful it is. How can I not sigh?”

A young woman exited the building. Walking up to me, she said, “I’ve been calling you.” She handed me my ticket.

I was dumbfounded. “I thought I still had to pay.”

She shook her head while backing away. “It’s already paid for.” Pivoted, she went back into the terminal.

Pleased with that development, I rationalized that I must have been hearing my name on a PA system, although I didn’t see any speakers. No matter; one problem was solved. I just needed to check my bag and head for the gate.

Another woman had set up a taped off area on the land with red masking tape. For some reasons that I don’t understand, I decided that was for getting my baggage ready to be checked.

I went over and spread the bag on the ground and repacked it. The woman came up and asked me what I was doing. Apologetically, I explained. She waved that off and pointed to where I should take my bag.

That’s where the dream ended.

2

The Publishing Dream

Note: this is about a nocturnal dream about being published, and not a RL goal.

It was a pleasant fall day. Walking among a bustling crowd, my wife and I met with my mother and stepfather (SF). All of us were much younger than RL by a margin of several decades, and my stepfather has been dead for a decade.

We were going to watch a soccer game and have a meal. As we met, we came up on a large box. Cast iron, it was painted with black enamel, and contained hundreds of post office lock boxes. SF said, “By the way, Mike, you received some mail at my address.” He made a vague gesture toward the black box.

“I did?” I was surprised beyond words. Receiving mail at his address seemed as implausible as a demon army invading.

“Yes, two, I think,” SF answered.

“Can I have them?”

“Yeah you can have them.”

But SF was going on. Mom had already gone on. They didn’t want to miss the game’s start and were impatient. I asked my SF for his mailbox combo. He didn’t answer and kept going.

But I saw a key. I assumed that what I’d received was too large for his lockbox, so they’d put it in a larger one and gave my SF the key for it. Seizing the key, I went and opened a larger lockbox and withdrew a large yellow envelope with my name on it. Tearing it open, I learned it was an acceptance letter from a publisher. They’d accepted my submission, “Beyond the Lines”, and wanted to publish it, and were offering me a contract for three more.

The offer letter also said that I needed to respond by the deadline. The deadline was today. Fortunately, they included a link to type in to accept the agreement electronically.

I was tremendously excited. I’d forgottent that I’d submitted anything. I didn’t understand how my SF’s address was mixed up with it. Naturally, I didn’t want to go on to a soccer game. I wanted to go and celebrate. But my wife pointed out that I’d made committments, so we continued to the game.

Dream end.

The dream surprised me. My stepfather and I did not get along. He was a major reason for moving away from Mom in my mid-teens. He is the father of my two youngest sisters, and I love them dearly, but I have no love for him and had not seen him in decades before he died.

Also, we never went to a soccer game. He showed no interest in soccer. I showed little myself, for that matter. And he never met my wife.

So, I take hope and insight from the dream that publishing help will come from unexpected means and directions. I remain an optimist.

0

The Dream of Getting Lost

This dream began with my wife naked in front of me. She was on her knees in a room when I walked in. We flirted and I began kissing her and nibbling her ear lobes. She said, “Let’s move this into the other room.” Aroused and ready, I agreed.

We went into the other room, which was the living room. She said, “I’ll be right back.”

While she was gone, I stripped off my clothes. When she returned, she was fully dressed and had two other women with her. I knew both of them.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

My wife replied, “My book club is arriving.”

Well, that took me aback but I didn’t feel like now was the time to discuss it. Discreetly, I made my way out.

Dressing in the other room, I took off through the local area. It turned out to be a village built on several hills thick with pine and oak trees. The roads were narrow and winding, but I was enjoying my walk.

Going up a steep hill, I found a huge border of tall, trimmed bushes. Slipping through them, I discovered myself at a palatial estate.

A young boy approached. He seemed like he was ten years old. We briefly tossed a baseball back and forth. He told me that this was his house and invited me in to see it. “It’s like a museum,” he finished.

My curiousity had grown. The house presented a huge, jumbled, modern appearance of arches and glass, with multiple types of materials finishing the facade, complementing the many large, dark windows.

I entered the house with him. The boy was right; the first room we entered was tall and broad. Art and aniquities filled the space. Walking around, I gawked at art pieces. Several were Picasso pieces, from the cubist and blue periods. I was astounded to find them in a house in a small village and thought the people who owned the property must be very wealthy.

The boy who was my host had left. Nervous about being alone there, I was accosted by a woman coming down a large spiral staircase. Brunette, slender, not tall, and very attractive, she wore blue jeans and a red top. She seemed to be about the same age as me.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

I explained why I was there. Her son came down and verified my story. Nervous, I decided to leave. She protested that I didn’t need to leave. We began walking around, looking at art and antiques. Standing very close to me, she told about how they came to own the pieces. Acting on impulse, I kissed her.

I prepared to be slapped or rush out, and apologize. In response, she took my hand behind a screen and kissed me. I was both excited and worried. She kept leading me into nooks and niches, kissing me and encouraging my advances.

Then her son said, “Hi, Dad.”

I was horrified that the woman’s husband was with us. Dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, he was silver haired with black streaks, slightly taller than myself, and a few years older.

The woman introduced me to him. I thought any dalliance with the woman was over, but she continued leading me to secluded places, where we made out with teenagers. I saw the husban suspiciously eyeing me. Not wanting a confrontation, I left.

The wife caught up with me outside and gave me her number, asking me to call her so we can meet and finish what we started. I was dubious. The whole thing was crazy. I left her without promising anything but kept the number, sticking it into a pocket.

Darkened skies had taken over while I inside. Now going up another hill past throngs of people shopping in many small shops and boutiques, I remembered that a book store was up the hill and headed there to buy a book for my wife. After chatting with the owner, I purchased the book and headed down another stretch of hill. It was later and darker, and I wasn’t sure where I was. Thinking I knew a shortcut, I took a few turns.

I ended up completely lost in a maze of small white shops along an alley. Big raindrops began striking me and splattering along the ground. Stopping at a bakery, I bought pastries for me and my wife. The rain intensified while I was in the bakery. As I opened the door to leave, the shopkeeper urged me to stay inside until the rain stopped.

I declined. Going out, I was quickly drenched. I still didn’t know where I was and kicked myself for not asking for directions at the bakery. I kept going, though, believing that I would find my way. It didn’t help that the sun was behind clouds, and the rain was so thick that I couldn’t see far.

Then, unexpectedly, I saw two trees and knew where I was. Seeing my house, I hurried to the covered front porch. Sopping wet, I stood on the porch, ate a pastry, and watched the rain as dusk heralded night’s entrance.

2

Driving With Dad Dream

Another slice of the nocturnal mind’s workings to share.

To begin, I’m with my father. Each of us are similar to our real life appearances but I think we both were a little younger.

I’m getting an award. I don’t know what it’s for. Dad wants to attend. He tells me, “We’ll go together. We’ll drive there.”

He gestures toward a car. A silver behemoth, it may have been manufactured in the 1930s and features a long wheelbase — think of a large SUV here — running boards, an upright radiator, and spindly, narrow wheels and tires. Its condition is show-car perfect.

“What is that?” I ask. I see from looking around that he has other, more modern cars but still several decades old. All are well cared for. A graceful, polished gray model’s dazzling shine catches my eye from one.

In answer, he says, “You drive. We better get going. It doesn’t have a high top speed.”

I am floored. At that moment, two sisters arrive. They want to go with us.

Dad is against that. Telling them so, he finishes, “But I want you there. Take one of my other cars.”

A large steel garage door which was previously unnoticed grinds open. Behind it are modern sports and luxury cars. “Take one of those cars,” Dad says.

My sisters are already clamboring into a new red Mazda Miata. I say, “Why can’t we take one of those?”

Dad responds with non-sequitors. I interrupt him. “If you want to ride with me, why don’t we take one of those cars?” I see a BMW in the garage. “Like that blue BMW. Why don’t we take it?”

Evasive as before, Dad basically declares, “I want to take this car.”

We climb into his old car. I ask, “Is this a Bugatti?”

Dad doesn’t respond. Firing up the old machine, I keep looking for clues about what it is.

That’s where the dream ends.

I tote this dream down as another manifestation of unspoken worries and doubts about my life and where it’s at. Pretty standard stuff. Retired from corporate and military careers, I’ve staked a lot of time and hope on writing fiction. I’m driven to write, but will it go anywhere beyond my computer? Or, as the dream suggests to me, am I interested in trying another vehicle?

As I pass over the post again, though, the driving theme raises new questions. Writing = driving. Whether I want to or not, I need to go on. Some of my choices seem taken away from me by some deeper driving force within me.

Looking at it another way, though, I can point out, it’s a silver car I’m being forced into, a classic which is in good condition, and I’m driving off to collect an award. Looking at it that way, my subconscious is encouraging me to go with what I’m doing.

It’s amusing how these dream elements can be addressed. Even if I find success beyond writing for myself, I think that I’ll always be wrestling with the drive and need to write, and my doubts. Just part of my imposter syndrome surfacing again.

2

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