Category: Dreams

The Movie Dream

I dreamed I was in a movie. Then I realized it was a movie and not life, so I stepped out of it. But then, remembering that I’d seen the movie, I tried recalling how it went. It seemed different, so I stepped back in to follow.

The dream was about a man protecting the Pope. Dressed in a black leather trench coat, with a black hat pulled low over his head, he was in a big white Lincoln Town Car. After some changes in camera perspective and mild action, it emerged that he’d been shot. People were after him and he was after them, trying to be proactive by getting them before they got him. I was very young, maybe thirteen or fourteen, with shaggy brown hair. At one point, I was accused of being the one who’d shot him. I was ready to proclaim my innocence, but the Pope’s bodyguard identified me and said, “He’s one of the good guys.” I was flattered to be cited as a good guy.

Now, though, I felt like I had to live up to that billing. I kept my eye on the Pope’s bodyguard, and spied others trying to sneak up on him. I went to give him warning, but he’d noticed them and was on it. It was at this point in my dream when I thought, wasn’t this a movie? Stepping out, I watched on a big screen as a fine silver thread was spooled out along a winding path through a business area. The silver thread was lit.

A fuse, I realized. But isn’t that different from the movie? That’s not how I remembered it happening.

I stepped back into it. Something was going to explode. I raced forward and scuffed out the silver thread. That ignited all manner of chaos as bad guys — in white clothing, or light clothing, male and female — rushing out to re-light the fuse and the Pope’s bodyguard fighting them off.

Which is where it ended, or was interrupted, by an unnamed cat called Tucker.

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The Sheriff Dream

I was asked if I would be Sheriff. People would need to vote me in, of course. I accepted the offer because I didn’t think it would come about. I didn’t campaign so I was surprised to hear that I’d won. I was also surprised to hear me referred to as ‘the short guy with the short hair’.

I was young and happy. Becoming Sheriff was something I took seriously but was also that I wasn’t going to let dominate me. As I was leaving to walk around with a friend, an older man sharply said in passing, “I prefer my sheriff with his gun.”

Oh, yeah, I’d forgotten my gun. Guess I needed to carry that around. As I began walking out with my gun and my friend, the same older acquaintance said, “I prefer my sheriff to wear his gun in his holster properly.”

Oh, silly me, of course. With my friend’s help, I holstered my gun and put on my holster around my waist. He and I walked around. He was going on a journey to the north. I was helping him review what he needed to take with him and offering any help that I could give. Everywhere we went, people commented on the ‘short-haired guy who is our new sheriff’. I thought that was funny.

Rain fell. I had to put on a coat. That demanded I rearrange my gun holster. My friend helped me with that. As soon as we did it, the rain stopped. He and I entered a shop. An argument was going on. As it escalated, someone said, “Sheriff, can you intervene?”

I walked over and told the participants to break it up. They asked, who are you? I replied, “I’m the sheriff.”

They laughed. “You’re not the sheriff.”

“I am,” I answered. “I have a badge, I have the power and authority, and I have a gun.”

That shut them up. They walked away. My friend and I walked outside. I said good-bye to him and shook his hand.

Dream end.

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The Pencil Threat Dream

In my early twenties, I was second-in-charge of an enormous global competition. People had gathered from around the world. The games’ name started with a Z and was something like Zweimeckel. Others worked for me as judges, referees, and umpires. They rushed about, watching and ruling over the various events underway and scoring them, a noisy, busy sight under blue skies, while I strode along, grinning and nodding in approval. I mostly saw the workers and was indifferent to the events and competitors. Those things only mattered to me if something went wrong.

Something did. A young female competitor broke the games’ harmony with sudden threats. I responded to the site and found she was complaining, then grabbed a yellow pencil off a clipboard and brandished it like a sword. Her threats found laughter: what could she do with a pencil? “Plenty,” she defiantly responded, and then pulled the pencil point out. “I can stab someone with this?” The point was so small, she couldn’t hold onto it and kept dropping it. That brought a round of greater laughter.

Everyone paused, waiting to see what I would say. I ruled that she wasn’t a threat but that she was dismissed from the games. She was being removed as I turned away.

Dream end.

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Thursday’s Theme Music

Sunrise came, quiet as smoke, 6:43 AM. Clouds dominated. Soft rang sang a light ditty. We’re happy for the rain. Give us a little more, please. It’ll be a good day to light the fire and pull out a book. I’m reading Razorblade Tears, and I’m eager to continue.

Today is Thursday, March 3, 2022. Sunset will be at 6:03 PM. Meanwhile, our temperature is 43 F, with a high of 47 possible. A train is chugging through town, its warning horns a higher note under the engine’s low, steady thrum. The tracks are about three quarters of a mile from my house. The sounds remind me of my childhood. Grandpa was a model train enthusiast and bought me train sets, which I set up, emulating him. Many seasons have been swept under the rug since I last played with trains.

I have “Helen Wheels” by Paul McCartney and Wings from 1973 playing loud in the morning mental music stream. Came about because of a dream. Awoke thinking about said dream, which prompted thoughts about said song, and here I am. The dream was about traveling in cars, so the dream and song connection make sense, as the song is also about traveling.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vaxes and boosters as needed. Speaking of needed, I think I’ll go into the kitchen and help a cup of coffee fulfill its purpose of melding with my taste buds. Here’s the tune. Cheers

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The Silver Cars Dream

Again, my dream made me a young man. I was with others, driving in cars on wide, busy boulevards. Sunshine blessed us so we had the roof down on my car, which was turquoise. An entertaining time was being had. It was all about a car show. All these old model cars were there to be judged. We guessed there were hundreds, maybe thousands. Old Porsche variations and European sports cars and GTs dominated, but there were also 1960s and early 1970s American muscle — Mustangs, Camaro Z28s and SS, Firebirds (including Trans-Ams), Cougars, GTOs, Cudas, and Chargers. All the cars were silver except for a few black, white, and turquoise ones, with one other exception. Silver abounded, making us laugh.

We had a list of the cars and were driving around to see them but the cars being judged were also being driven around, creating an entertaining game. Friends had their cars entered, and so did Dad, and old silver Thunderbird. Although I was sometimes driving, I was a passenger at one point, looking at the list of cars. I call it a list, but it was like a small newspaper. The car’s make, model, and year would always be in bold. I was running my thumb along the lists, exclaiming as I noted friends and celebrities’ cars, when I looked up.

Traffic was going in three lines in each direction, very busy. Ahead of us was by several car lengths was the car, I believed, the rarest and most exotic. I said, “That’s it! Catch that car.” The driver (don’t know who it was, never saw them) accelerated. Dad, who was in another car, which was gold, the single gold car in sight, said, “You’re never gonna catch them.” I replied, “Watch us.” Our car shot forward.

But the car we were chasing — was it a Jaguar, Ferrari, Lamborghini? — accelerated more. Pulling away, like they were trying to evade us, they began cutting in and out of traffic. “They’re going to crash,” I said. Dad, from the other car said, “That car is never going to crash. It can’t crash.”

Just then, the car we chased spun and flipped. Wildly, it righted in air and landed neatly. Now facing the wrong way, straddling two lanes, and now black, it sat there as cars went around it. Then it executed a backflip with a twist, landing on its wheels, now silver again, back in the right direction, in one lane, and accelerated away.

So cool, we shouted with laughter in my car. So cool.

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The Teams Dream

I was a young man — again — for this dream, in my late teens or early twenties. I was with a woman at the beginning, in a suburban setting of houses, streets, and parks. About my age, she seemed like a relative stranger. We were just being informed by a tall pale woman that we’d been selected for a team. That pleased us both. We were selected for different teams, which made us laugh. Each team had a uniform and marker. My uniform was black and yellow like a bee. Her uniform was something like pink and black. Others were white and black, and light blue and black.

We readily grasped the rules although it’s nothing that I can recount. Each morning, we showed up and raced to procure a specific object, like spoons or fish, or to recruit people by tagging them with your marker, according to instructions provided by the tall, ball woman. My marker was black and fuzzy. I could throw it at people and make it stick, sometimes throwing curve balls to make this happen, or from extreme distances, astonishing myself and others. Each day became a fun, constant race to get this done, and then get back to our homes. My friend and I taunted one another in a good-natured way throughout the event, along the lines, “I’m going to win today,” and “See you at the finish line, loser.”

We found ourselves in small single-winged prop planes. I began trying to drop my marker onto people below, but the marker was turning into fish as it hit them. I’d tell them, as they picked up the fish and looked up at me in the plane, “That’s supposed to be a marker.” They didn’t understand that any better than a fish hitting them.

We ended up at the ocean, in waves. I ran out through the surf and then turned and entered a cove. At that point, I realized, I’d gone the wrong way. That put me way behind.

I’ve lost, I realized, then decided, I need to start again.

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The Appliances Dream

My wife and I were once again young and were living in a home with an enormous kitchen. Filled with hyper-modern stainless-steel appliances, it had blonde wood cabinets and a dark, brick red tile floor. I didn’t think that combo worked in the dream but shrugged it off. Besides those aspects and the appliances, I don’t think the room had any windows, but it did have two sinks, which impressed me although I wondered if two sinks were necessary, and a huge work island with a redwood top.

I actually spent the first dream segment admiring where I was, the newness of the appliances, the size of the kitchen, how modern everything was. The refrigerator especially impressed me. About eight feet tall, the combo refrigerator-freezer unit featured an interesting, complex set of controls on the side to control different interior sections to store different foods at different temperatures. Beyond that, I drifted to looking at the range and stove, microwave, and dish washer. Looking at the microwave led me to exclaim, “Look at all the things it can do,” but in the immediate aftermath of that, my wife said, “The refrigerator isn’t working.”

She said that with angry intensity and stormed around the kitchen, complaining about it, talking about shutting it off, calling repair people, etc. I returned, “Hold on, it has this complex control. There’s probably a self-diagnosis aspect to this.” As I began thumbing through the electronic menus, she then announced, “Now the microwave is broken.”

Going to her, I asked, “How is the microwave broken?” Instead of answering me, she began furiously cleaning the floor with a mop and rag. I tried talking with her, but she brooded and focused on cleaning. She surprised me by sliding the large island to one side to clean the floor beneath it. As the island had covered the floor, it looked spotless, which I pointed out. Answering, “It still needs cleaned,” she stormed away to get more cleaning supplies. Figuring that I wasn’t going to dissuade her from cleaning, I cleaned that floor section, and then moved the island again and cleaned the floor there.

Dream end.

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The Powers Dream

The dream began with me as a young man again — a common element in my recent bout of dreams — with friends and family members. My wife wasn’t present in the dream, though.

With friends and family, a large house was being emptied and cleaned. In fact, we’d finished doing that and were now walking through on a final inspection. Everything was immaculate. Thick, China blue carpeting was underfoot. White, unmarked paint on walls. Windows which were clear and clean. Bright sunshine lighting landscaping outside them. I went from room to room, looking in, satisfied, speaking to a female friend accompanying me, explaining to her that I’m moving.

But then, I entered a room where my little sisters were supposed to have cleaned. Something in their giggling demeanors provoked suspicions about what they’d done so I questioned them. As I did, I inspected more closely and found that they’d not cleared away a large cache of papers, as they should have done, but had tried hiding it under a remaining piece of furniture.

I berated them about taking shortcuts and deceiving me. They were abashed and apologetic. Taking the large pile of papers to hand, we began discussing how to get rid of them when I found that I could breathe on them and set them aflame.

The discovery delighted me. More impressive, only the paper burned. Amazed and astonished by this, I walked around showing off this new skill. Then I somehow learned that I could even burn paper with my breath while underwater. That seemed ridiculous because, how can I breathe and set the paper on fire and hold my breath while underwater? It all seemed incompatible. I learned that I wasn’t underwater but under the surface of reality. Well, how cool was that? Refining my knowledge, I clarified that under reality was very like being underwater and that I could ignite the paper with my breath underwater because I didn’t need to hold my breath. As I went through this process, I discovered that I could stay underwater indefinitely and that being underwater was no different from being in the air on the surface. I moved the same, weighed the same, etc.

After showing everyone how I could go below the surface, I tried teaching them how to do this as well. None of them could. But during my efforts, I found that I could also fly. I was like, wow, I can go through the air, flying, like a fish goes through the water while swimming.

After testing and demonstrating this new skill, realizing that I could fly as far and high as I wanted, I wondered what had changed that allowed me to suddenly gain these new powers?

Dream end.

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The Red Shot Dream

This was such a persistently powerful dream last night. I awoke from it twice in befuddlement, sure that I’d forgotten to do something that had to do with my shots. When was I supposed to take them? There was a sequence. But wait —

In the dream, only women were originally receiving the shots. They were happy about it. We were all walking around outside, following neat sidewalks in sunshine. The shots were self-injected. A red powder in a miniature Erlenmeyer flask, I don’t know what it combatted. The injections needed to be given in a specific time sequence that was established by people’s DNA, age, and where they lived. As the women went about, happily self-injecting, I joined a hue: “Why aren’t men being injected?” The problem, whatever it was, affected everyone. It didn’t make sense for half of the population to get it and not the other half.

The powers agreed and decreed everyone should receive the shots. I was given my flasks of powder and told my injection schedule.

That’s when I awoke. Sitting up, I peered about for my flasks and tried remembering my schedule. When was I supposed to give myself the next injection? In three hours? What time would that be?

As I realized all that was a dream, I calmed and thought of the dream, then went back to sleep. And — boom — shortly thereafter, I was awake and thinking, what was I supposed to do? Where are my injections?

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The Bike Dream

Young again, my wife and I were visiting a town. Resplendent with cobblestones and old stone buildings, but in a warm environment by a large body of water, it seemed like this we were somewhere in southern Europe by the Mediterranean. A fair or festival was getting underway. Entertainment and food booths had been set up. It was briskly busy, in a pleasant way, with people enjoying themselves and one another but not so many people that moving around was difficult.

I went into a business, to a counter to make reservations for three couples. Entering, I had to follow a path prescribed by a red velvet rope, as used in theaters, and go through several checkpoints. I was a little confused about what I was doing and why, calling out to clarify and confirm it with my wife. But, yes, I was reserving three hotel rooms for six people. While this was going on, people were asking me to watch out for something I was carrying on my back. I never saw this thing in the dream but knew it was a large piece of art. The man behind the counter warned me (but in a friendly way) to watch that I didn’t break anything as I moved around, as they had glasswork hanging from the ceiling. There was much joking about all of this.

Back outside, my wife mentioned that friends said they’d been successful just getting two and a half rooms. That made no sense to me, so I asked her to repeat it. We went through this three times. As this happened, we were holding hands and walking up a hill on a cobblestone street. A man with a red bike joined us. A stranger, he was somewhat famous, and very good looking, with fine, Latina features. His English was accented but he spoke it well. He was walking his bicycle up the hill as he spoke with us, but then got on it and rode straight up the hill. As the hill was steadily steeper, his riding was impressive, especially when he did a wheelie and went up half the hill on only his back wheel. As he reached the top, my wife and I turned around to walk back down. We were talking and sightseeing while all this was transpiring.

The guy with the bike dismounted from it as he reached us and started walking his bike again, but he didn’t speak with us. He veered off, staying in parallel, and then released his bike. To our amazement, the bike stayed upright and wheeled ahead, but stayed with the guy, like the bike was a well-trained pet. His bike was red before but now it was black, puzzling me. Had I seen it wrong before, or did he change bikes?

Then, though, the man started slowing down to look at things. As he did, the bike sped up. I pointed this out to my wife; the man was paying no attention to his bike. We watched in astonishment as it went straight down the hill, crossed the busy street, and then stopped and stood still and upright in the sunshine.

Dream end.

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