Category: Dreams

Another Self-Flagellating Dream

No whips of any kind were in this dream, except the brutal emotional ones most of us employ on ourselves. This was a classic mélange of frustration and anxiety.

It began as a military dream. Whether this is true, I remembering being partially awake and telling myself, “Not another military dream.”

Then I wasn’t in a military dream. I was instead outside, with others. We were all all students and were scheduled to give an all-important final presentation. We’d already done one. Using feedback, we were supposed to go back and improve it.

But here I was, not at all fucking ready. It was time to go and I wasn’t dressed. I hadn’t changed my presentation, either.

I told myself, I can do this! Others began leaving for class. One reminded me that I needed to be there on time. The doors would close and lock at eight. If I wasn’t there, I would be failed.

Sure, I wasn’t worried.

Knowing that I needed to change clothes and my presentation, I went in the opposite direction of everyone else. What was I going to wear? How was I going to change the presentation.

I didn’t have answers. Time was running out. I decided, I’d wear what I had on – a red sweater with black pants – even though I’d worn those yesterday. And, by not changing clothes, I could make changes to the presentation.

Time was running out, and I’d wasted so much of it. I rushed toward class.

A bell was ringing.

I wasn’t going to make it.

I partially awoke. Thinking of the dream, I decided, I can change the outcome. Go back, dream again, and change the outcome.

I’m usually not bad at doing this. Today was a failure.

I went back. Time was running out. I would take a short-cut to get to the room. Rushing down a long flight of stairs, I came to another hallway.

It ended.

It was the wrong hallway. I couldn’t reach my class room from there.

A student and a security guard were sitting there, talking about another, but the details reflected my own situation. The student asked, “What if they’re late?”

The guard replied, “It doesn’t matter. I close the doors and lock them.”

“But what if they’re really trying?”

“Doesn’t matter. The doors are locked, and they fail.”

I started back up the hall to head for my class room. I found myself there.

The door wasn’t locked. I opened it and entered.

Everyone looked at me. The teachers (two) looked at me. A classmate said, “You’re in the same clothes. You didn’t change.”

The dream ended.

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Sunday’s Theme Music

Dreams, news, weather, cats, etc.

Disparate elements of thoughts combine.

New elements form.

Fresh streams of thoughts begin.

With it arrives memories and hopes.

Pieces of song.

And what it all boils down to
Is that no one’s really got it figured out just yet
Well, I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is playin’ a piano
And what it all comes down to my friends, yeah
Is that everything is just fine, fine, fine
‘Cause I’ve got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is hailin’ a taxi cab

h/t to Genius.com

The song is “Hand in my Pocket”, the year is 1995, and the performer is Alanis Morissette.

Here is today’s theme music.

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An Inspection Dream

My dreams remain plentiful and involved. Sometimes, it feels like my brain is switching channels between realities as I sleep.

In this segment, I’d arrived to conduct an inspection. Three gentlemen in sites, all white, but of different ages, met me.

They knew why I was there. The oldest, with receding, thick white hair said, “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Do you have what I want?” I asked.

“Yes, but we must find it.” He nodded to the youngest man. “Go tell the others he’s arrived.” After going up white steps, the young man entered a tall, narrow building.

We followed him. The oldest man said, “It’s in one of the safes. We don’t know which one.”

We were walking down a narrow hall. I asked, “How many are there?”

“Twenty-three.”

I’d not expected so many safes. The oldest man nodded at the other. “Open number six.”

The other turned and opened a door, revealing a silver vault door within with a silver combination dial in the center. Stepping forward, the man put his hand on the dial.

The dream ended.

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Mixed Dreams

Weighing dreams on the scales. There was another flying dream, brief but intense. I wore goggles in this one. The wind tore at my face. An insect flew into my mouth.

My sputtering and spitting marked the end to the flying portion. In a dream picosecond, I’m in the military somewhere, temporary duty somewhere, finishing up. A woman, a major is present. She came in for the same conference. I talk to her about sharing a ride to the airport. Plans and agreements are made.

Time skips ahead. It’s later than I thought. I need to rush. I haven’t packed! I need to check out, too. The airport is ninety miles away. No, it’s ninety minutes away.

I need to hurry.

I’m racing, explaining to the front desk, I order a ride and tell them where to meet me. Hurrying to the room, I shower and change clothes. Shoes! Where are they? Oh, I’ve packed them. Where’s my thing, where‘s my toilet kit?

Anxiety ratchets up.

I see a car, a silvery blue sedan, like a Buick. A woman is driving. My ride, I think. I wave at her. She parks and leaves her car. I shout over, “I need more time, I’m almost ready.”

She walks over and starts following me. I’m talking to her, babbling. We’re at once outside and in the room. I finally find my toilet kit — I’ve already packed it. Damn it, where’s my head?

And the woman says, “I’m not your ride. I’m your replacement. How was your visit?”

In morning’s warm light, it all makes sense. The military was a comfortable space. Not very challenging, and straightforward. Structured, with few surprises, and a lot of positive feedback.

Now I’m out on my own, flying on my writing words but so damned dismayed. Is it smart enough, original enough, good enough?

Where is my toilet kit?

I know. Standard writer qualms. Standard human qualms.

Standard life qualms.

See ya.

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Another Changing Dream

Found myself wealthy with dreams last night. This was my favorite.

I’d left the military and I’d change clothes, twice. We were in a busy olace, an amalgam of city, countryside, stores, restaurants, and airport. It changed with where I ooked. That seemed right.

Now I was running late. Friends (K and W) and wife (B) accompanied me, and waited. I told them, “I need to take care of some of my change. There’s so much, I want to deal with some now.”

They mildly complained but I laughed them off and went to my car. Hard-edged and shiny, it was bright lime green wedge, exotic, expensive, and new. Yet my things were in it.

Young, energized, feeling liberated, I opened a panel up, revealing a long, light gray tray. Normally hidden from view, it went half the car’s length. Phones, electronic gear, clothing, paper money, and silver coins were in this tray. I couldn’t reach them because it’d all slid to the back, facts pointed out (with a laugh) by K, W, and B.

I replied, “Watch.” Jiggling the car caused the stuff to shift forward, letting me grab it. “There’s so much change,” I said, laughing. The others asked me what was funny but I didn’t explain. I put handfuls of change in my pocket to use, and then took some clothes to put on, and took a blender and a phone and put them into other parts of the car.

Traffic was heavy. We needed to go. After putting sunglasses on, we took off. The trip was short and fast. I swear that lime green car was flying.

After parking it and exiting, a dream about shopping began

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Wednesday’s Theme Music

The night was lively with energetic, positive dreams. When dreams like these take place, I hope and wish that they’re prophetic. Although I’m an optimist, I believe they’re overflow from my attitude, not the future.

My attitude does fluctuate. I can swing from hopeful to despairing faster than a hummingbird’s heartbeat.

At least one dream featured background music as U2’s “Red Hill Mining Town” was played. A few stanzas were prominent:

We’re wounded by fear
Injured in doubt.
I can lose myself
You I can’t live without.
Yeah, you keep me holdin’ on
In Red Hill Town.
See the lights go down onÖ
Hangin’ on
You’re all that’s left to hold on to.
I’m still waiting
I’m hangin’ on
You’re all that’s left to hold on to
On to.

h/t to Metrolyrics.com

BTW, did anyone else’s WP give you a change — an improvement, they’ll probably tell you — changing your block editor? Gotta fix it again, not difficult, but annoying. Don’t need another cause for teeth gnashing, thanks.

Here’s the music, from 1991. Not fond of this video. Hadn’t seen it before today, but it leaves me cringing with its sense of studied drama.

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Monday Meringue

  1. Busy dream night. Left me feeling energized. I was flying in one dream. An incredible, vivid dream, I woke up confused at finding myself in a bed, in a room, and on the ground. Other than flying, feeling and hearing the wind while looking down on the world, there wasn’t much else to it. But I did think while looking down at mountains, forests, and seas, the world is a fine place. Such a different impression I experience while reading the news each day.
  2. I have noted a trend. Lots of dreams translates to high writing energy. It doesn’t work out as well as it might sound. I can’t keep up with my brain’s layered intensity to the story being followed. The ability to do that might separate critically and commercially successful writers from the rest of us pluggers. I’m working on it. Just like other acquired forms (athletics, music, art, math, reading, etc.), discipline and repetition can improve the process and outcome.
  3. Other than a foray to 104 degrees F Friday, we’ve been spared the triple-digit forecast. Sat. was supposed to be 105, Sunday, 108, but we hit ‘just’ 99 and 98. Today will only be 98. Lots of cloud cover so no need for the AC. The clouds block that sun, good for keeping cool, not so much for the solar panels. I’m happy with the trade.
  4. I can always tell when we’re not producing much solar energy. The inverter is in the garage. When the panels are cranking, it sounds like a large hive of angry murder bees. As of now, it’s putting out 900 watts and is quiet as a sleeping cat.
  5. Did a little typing with my left hand today. Progress. Return to doc a week from today. Fingers crossed…on my right hand.
  6. Yeah, got the coffee. Actually already drank it. Already wrote for two hours this morning. It was write, read, post, play a game, write, repeat. So time to continue writing like crazy one…more…time.
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The Box of Clothes Dream

It was Friday, just after noon. Dressed in casual work clothes, I was walking through bright and airy offices. It could’ve easily been one of the new buildings from one of my employers in Redwood City and Mountain View, CA, or Atlanta, GA.

Two parties were planned. One was to fete a team project, and the other was a birthday party. Although the parties started here, it was understood that the parties would continue elsewhere. Visiting with friendly co-workers, I decided to change clothes. Producing a box, I put on my workout clothes.

I now looked just like I did in high school. Tables were set up and food was arriving. I walked along eyeing it. A vast assortment of fruit and veggie trays were arrayed, along with cookies. One set of cookies were shaped like hearts and outlined in pink, red, or white glitter. The cookies were on sticks and arranged as a bouquet in a red glass vase.

I declined to eat anything for the moment. Then, abruptly, I worried, where’s my box of clothes? I asked several people if they’d seen it: no. I thought I’d left it in the hall. Then I recalled where I placed it.

Rushing down a flight of stairs, I went to a corner. There was my box. I picked it up and opened it, confirming that everything was in it.

Music began. I realized the song was “All Night Long (All Night)” by Lionel Richie. Someone said that he was there. Some people began dancing.

The dream ended.

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Sunday’s Theme Music

Raucous dreams consumed the night. Oh, yes, there was too a floof fight.

4:30 AM. In this corner, wearing long black and white fur and weighing in at sixteen pounds…Tucker.

In the other corner, by the kibble bowl, that eleven pound ginger blade who used to be called Meep!…Papi.

I know Tucker started it because it’s always Tucker. Little combat was involved because Papi is a shrieker. His first one bought us awake and out of bed in one leap, and it was done. I swear that we moved like ninjas…little aging, graying ninjas…

But it’s email that gives me today’s theme music. Money…financing…sales ending today…the calls for assistance and donations and contributions dominated the box in a depressing blitz. Pelosi claimed her email wasn’t about money but Biden openly asked. Amazon and Costco crowed, look at what everyone is buying. Animal shelters and rescue groups wanted cash. The USPS needs help…

Such an AM gut punch even before my brekkie and coffee. Making them was when the theme song came: “Money (That’s What I Want)“.

The Beatles had a big hit with it, but I was channeling The Flying Lizards’ 1979 cover with Deborah Evans-Stickland. The Beatles were nakedly raw and emotional in their money demands. The Flying Lizards brought a mocking, flat monotone to their appeal.

My email solicitations were across the gamut: fear — they’re winning, they’re winning, give me money to fight back — to logic — no, it was all fear, fear of what will happen if you don’t give or buy, because you will be losing.

Anyway, that’s my music choice for today. Please listen and send me money. And stay healthy. Wear a damn mask.

The end?

 

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The ID Stack Dream

I was progressing through checkpoints…using four fake identifications.

To make them work, I was stacking the IDs on…automobile engines.

Each ID was a gray rectangular box, I’d guess 4″ (l) by 3″ (w) by 2″ high. Going along a line of cars, I’d open the car hoods and mix the four fake ones among the genuine ones in the cars, often putting it on top or second from the top. One car said, “Warning, your stack is too high.”

I went about lowering that stack. Some ‘real’ IDs crumbled. The stack become unstable, like a game of Jenga. I managed to balance them.

While I was going through this, a uniformed officer came by and asked for ID. I gave him one of the fake ones. After looking at it, he handed it to me and thanked me, using the name on the ID.

I replied, “Who?”

The officer said, “That’s the name on the ID.”

Laughing, I answered, “If you say so.”

Giving me a look, he turned away.

I didn’t care. I was busy stacking IDs.

What a fun dream it was.

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