Tag: blue

854 Cars Dream

One of the weirder dreams experienced last week stayed with me. This was from last Wednesday.

I’d entered a large building on some business. I was in a hurry and a little annoyed when someone hailed me. The young man in a suit confirmed my identity, increasing my annoyance, and then said, “I wanted to ensure that you knew your cars were here.”

People hurried around us. “What cars?” I asked. Given with great impatience, I waited for the answer so that I could explain that I’d flown in. It also seemed odd that he said ‘cars’ instead of ‘car’. On the other hand, maybe someone had provided me a rental.

“Your cars,” the young man replied, as if that explained anything.

I told him that explained nothing.

He looked at me like trees were growing out the sides of my head. “Your cars,” he responded and then spit out with haste, “Your cars were shipped here.” He spoke like he didn’t believe that I didn’t know this. “You have eight hundred and fifty-four cars.”

I repeated that number back to him. It was a ridiculous number. When he confirmed it, my mind looked for explanations and figured, oh, he means model cars or Matchbox cars or toy cars, something like that. Smiling, I asked, “Where are they?” I’d see them and then I would pursue understanding of how I’d come to have eight hundred and fifty-four cars. Someone was behind this, doing it as a joke. “Can you take me to them?”

Joy lit the young man’s expression. “Yes, sir, right this way, sir.”

We were in one of those convention centers attached to hotels, or the other way around, and had to cross a wide space. We entered a garage filled with cars and stopped. I waited.

“There are your cars,” the young guy said.

“Where?”

“There.”

I knew the guy meant all those cars in that garage. My vision roamed. Chevies. Ferraris. Fords. Mazdas. Mercedes. Jaguars. Porsches. A Jeep.

The guy asked, “Is everything alright, sir?”

I explained that I was surprised. I didn’t think these cars were mine. I thought there was a mistake. The other kept insisting, these are your cars, you are the right person and explained that they’d gone through great lengths to verify who I was. “Who did that? Who is they?” I naturally asked. No coherent answer was given.

The young man and I walked among the rows of cars. I verified, eight hundred and fifty-four. He confirmed that and then went on, cataloging the cars’ abilities, amusing me. He said, “You have fast cars and very fast cars, new cars, and old cars.” He was pointing at cars as he spoke and I was turning, gawking at the collection, stunned beyond further thought. Many famous and rare models were present. I eyed pretty green Mustangs that I was sure were in movies, silver Ferraris, and red Ferraris, blue Porsches, and a yellow Jeep. A low and wide Lamborghini and a stately, dark Rolls Royce. Old cars, new cars. All were in great shape.

The dream ended with me standing in the garage wondering, where did I get all of these cars and what was I going to do with them?

Reading this after capturing it all doesn’t give insight into how rapidly this unfolded. The dream was a torrent. I guess that’s the mind, rationalizing explanations of the scenes and images, trying to develop something cogent, and failing. Cheers

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Cars & Book Dream

I was staying at an exotic luxury place in a high-end location in the center of some city. I knew these things in my dream. No reason for being there was ever given. Everything was very fancy, chrome, blue windows, steel, and muted white furniture, modern, and new, although never named. I’d been put up in the place and was newly arrived and just familiarizing myself with it. A ground-floor location, several parts of my huge place was open to the street, something that I didn’t find odd, but enjoyed.

Background done, the action began when I walked across the place and accidently kicked a can, sending it out into the traffic. Dusk was settling in and lights were just coming on. Exasperated, I resolved to retrieve the can because everything looked so clean and gorgeous. As I went out to get it, a car hit the can, sending it flying further down the road where another car coming from the opposite direction flattened it.

More irritated, I hastened to get the can. I could see a line of cars accelerating up the double lane toward the can. I would need to rush.

I didn’t make it. Forced back by the oncoming traffic, I then saw a stream of such flattened cans in the street under the cars. I was disgusted.

“Asshole,” someone shouted. I saw two men. Both were white, with mustaches and long brown hair. One was tall and the other was short. One of them had yelled. I thought they meant me.

Seeing me seeing them, they chuckled and said, “We weren’t calling you an asshole. We were going whoever threw their can out an asshole. Unless it was you who did it. Then we are calling you an asshole.”

“No,” I answered, “I didn’t throw a can.” I explained what’d been going on.

They noticed a small hardcover book I carried and began talking about it. An older book, the tome was about three racing drivers, but the novel was considered ‘literary’. The two men highly recommended it. I responded that I was a novelist and the book enticed me because of its literary reputation, but I’d also been a racing fan.

We were walking by then. I was looking for my place and couldn’t find it. They invited me to join them at a restaurant for a drink. I agreed and we went into a red-theme place — red carpet and bar, red leather seats, red lights, red walls and curtains, red neon. As we chatted, the tall one went off for our drinks and the short one said that he hoped I was serious about what I said about the book and that I wasn’t just going along with them.

I told him, no, and we started chatting about racing. I told him that the late sixties and early seventies had captured my deepest racing interest. I enjoyed the three-liter Formula 1 cars of that age, especially Lotus and the 72, but also the Tyrrells, the Indy cars dominated by the Offy and Ford engines, the sports-racing cars of LeMans like the Chaparral 2D, and the Can Am cars like the McLarens, the Lola T70, and the 2J. (Yes, I actually said all of this in the dream.) They remarked with smiles that it sounded like I really knew my cars. The tall one said, “You should meet my sister.”

We’d finished our drinks and I decided to go. The dream’s final sequences involved me retracing my steps, looking for where I was staying, and then finding it.

Dream end. It was all quite vivid and sharply remembered.

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A Long Melancholy Dream

AKA, the Four Cars Dream

It could have been known as the Big House Dream, as well. Although I was about forty years old at the dream’s beginning, I was twenty at the end.

It began with a search for car keys.

I was looking for the keys for a car I owned when I was twenty, a signal orange Porsche 914. The drawer where I kept the keys was shallow and white. Another set of keys, for my RX-7, was in there, but where were the Porsche keys?

I began going through the house looking. The house was huge, rambling, and one story, with many low stone arches. Every room was empty except for that first one, which had a desk. This was my house; I’d newly acquired it.

Unable to find the keys, I ambled around the house until I stopped in one long and wide, all-white room. One piece of white furniture, a sort of stand turned upside down, was in it. Finding a can of black paint, I painted the stand. Finding other cans, I spray-painted the walls purple. As I finished up, a large, rotund, bald man with huge, muscular arms came in.

“There you are,” he said. “I need you to come with me.” He looked around at the painted room. “Nice job.”

I knew he was my minder and followed him. I was thirty by now. My minder told me that there was someone to see me. My minder showed me to the door.

Walking up a residential street, I encountered my old friend, Jeff. I haven’t seen or heard from him in RL in almost forty years. Jeff told me he had exciting news. He’d inherited a classic Porsche 911 from a friend. The guy had completely rebuilt it, and the car was pristine. Truly impressed, I congratulated Jeff. Jeff then said that he had a car for me and gave me the keys to a BMW. He said that he didn’t need it and he wanted me to have it.

I was flattered. I tried to turn it down. Jeff insisted. I accepted the keys to the car. The car wasn’t around. Jeff was going to have it shipped to me.

We parted. He went back up a hill, and I returned to my house.

I was now in my mid-twenties, wearing a brown leather jacket which I remember owning from RL. My minder was there, along with a girl who I knew to be sixteen. Her dark brown hair, like the color of oak, was long and shiny, framing a petite oval face. She smiled often, shyly. She wore jeans and a white button-down men’s shirt. She never said her name that I heard.

The minder left us. We chatted, with her peppering me with questions. Hearing a noise, I went out through one of the larger stone arches. It was late dusk, and the light was low. This arch opened to a path that entered the woods. I thought I heard and saw people down the path. It was my property, so I was concerned about what they were doing. As I walked, I picked up several flat stones to throw, if needed, as protection.

The girl had stayed back. After I returned, she questioned me about what was going on. I told her about the people and stood ready with the rocks. Young people came down the path, but they turned away from my house and property and kept going. Not needing my rocks, I set them down. With the BMW keys in hand from Jeff, I returned to the search for my Porsche car keys. This time I found them in the drawer where I’d first search. There was nothing else in the drawer. I thought that they must not have been there before, and someone must have placed them there after I’d searched.

I was now twenty. The minder returned. He said that Jeff wanted to see me. I went to the front door. Appearing very old, sad, and tired, Jeff told me that he’d decided to give me the Porsche which he inherited. I tried talking him out of it. He told me that he drove the car and saw himself in it, and that he looked ridiculous. The car didn’t fit him, but he believed it would suit me. Handing me the keys, he left.

I went outside of my house and sat against one of its stone walls. The girl came out and asked what was wrong. I told her that I was thinking about my friends and how I missed them. She noticed the keys and inquired after them. I told them that they were to four cars which I owned, and then described them. I could see each one. My Porsche was an orange 1974 model; the BMW was also a 1974 model. The green 911 Jeff gave me was a 1971 model year, and the blue Mazda was a 1981, which I had bought. She was most impressed when I mentioned the BMW, calling it a Bimmer. She said she really liked them. I answered, “No, you don’t understand, this is a vintage car from the 1970s, a white 2002. You’ve probably never seen one. They stopped making them before you were born.” I remembered then that I’d owned a BMW 2002 in RL and became confused: was I dreaming or remembering?

More dream followed about taking a trip with other people, but this is where I’ll stop.

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A Train Dream

Yeah, I know what train dreams supposedly signify in some circles. This is different. Also, this isn’t about the rock group called Train.

I was high on a hillside. Turning, I looked left over my shoulder and down into a green valley. As I further turned and looked, I saw a city in the green valley. Blmues and silver dominated the city. While I watched, moving closer, I understood that they were trains. What I had first thought of as a network of roads were trains. Trains were going in every direction, at different levels in a beautifully synchronized dance. Most trains were short, with a stubby engine and then two or three long cars, but some trains were ten to twelve cars in length. None seemed like a super train.

For a period, I just watched the trains, getting a feel for their travel, seeing how none touched the ground, that there were no tracks, that areas were set up where the trains stopped, how they didn’t have wheels.

Then, I was down close to the trains, moving toward my train. I knew that no one owned any land. We all lived in trains and stayed on the move. Some trains were full of extended families. You bought an engine and car and added on as the family grew, even incorporating businesses into your train.

Then, dream shift, my wife and I exited our train. It was day, a little cloudy. We were on muddy lowlands by a beach. The tide was out. We planned to go tide pooling. But large black rocks stole my attention. Going up a hill, I discovered it the rock was a statue. More dotted the land. Ah, we’re on Easter Island, I understood.

I hurried back down the hill to tell my wife. She was milling along the beach. Other trains and people had arrived. I recognized my wife’s brother-in-law and snuck up on him, surprising him. We were up on a slight elevation, looking down, where his wife and son were. His son’s wife wasn’t there, but my late mother-in-law was. All of them were not far away from their train, a small, beige engine with a single, short beige car. I said to him, “Oh, you brought all of them with you.”

He didn’t reply, and then I was down by my wife and my train. The train was a pretty chrome blue, very new and sleek. I walked along it, smiling and looking around as I thought, “This is going to take me a long way.”

Then I stopped and faced the choppy waters of a dark blue sea.

Dream end.

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The Confused Writing Dream

I was in a small building where there was a small office busy with people. It had a feel that seemed lifted from a 1950s movie. They had published something. Different authors were asked to read it and express what they thought. I was one, and my response was not like everyone else’s, triggering a new path.

Yet, I was never certain what was going on. I’d read and commented on something, but it seemed vague throughout the dream. My response made them ask me attend a conference with them. An old friend, a college professor, was going, too. He and I would go together, driving across country in a big, dark blue Lincoln Continental. He prepared to go in a hectic frenzy. I seemed baffled about everything he did and confused about what was going to happen next. Yet, soon we were in the car, driving across the country through light rain.

He was driving. I said something about seeing people needing a ride and wishing we could help them. Next thing that I knew, he pulled over for a hitchhiker. The hitchhiker climbed into the back. I offered to take a turn driving but the professor insisted that he was fine.

Seeing several more people on the side of the road, he pulled over and offered them a ride. I was leery of this, feeling that we didn’t have the room, but people crammed into the car. I looked into the back seat; it looked like a small, cluttered room. A blanket covered the rear window. That was to keep out the light so people could sleep, I guessed, but worried that it was illegal and we’d be pulled over. I again offered to drive, but he dismissed the offer.

We arrived at the conference. My impression was that it was a giant flea market, although it was indoors. People selling junk seemed to cover every square foot. Moving was done slowly, carefully, patiently. Food was being sold. I was hungry but passed on getting something to eat because I was reminded that we were having a big banquet. Someone gave me cookies, which I ate.

The head, a tall and bald white, middle-aged male wearing hornrim glasses, gave a short speech. He told everyone else that I was going to write about my impressions of the article they’d published. That startled me. Everyone applauded except me. Bewilderment was overtaking me. I was to do what, when? I didn’t understand but didn’t know how to ask the question.

Then, without me doing anything, the professor told me it was time to go. I realized that it was the weekend and that he needed to be back in order to teach Monday morning. We rushed around, packing things into the car. I offered to drive, since he’d driven us out there. He agreed. The dream ended as I entered the car and put my hands on the steering wheel.

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The Talking Cat Dream

It is mostly such a mundane dream. My wife and I are outside our home. We’re youngish, roaming about in our middle years. This is not the house we live in, nor a place we’ve ever lived in, but easily recognized as a standard, pleasant American middle class dream place, part of a planned development, a few stories tall, with a yard and neighbors in like houses. Not quite homes cut from the same design, but homogenized with individual flares and nuances. Our home is stucco and off-white.

As I say, we were outside, in sunny weather, in the backyard. Our cats walk about, being cats. One began scratching his claws on a headboard. “No,” I chase him away, telling my wife, “Don’t let him scratch this.” I set about repairing it. Adding a strip of wire grid that will keep murder mittens from scarring the wood. I pursue this past time for a period. It’s more tedious than I expected.

Railroad tracks are laid not far from our backyard. I’m up in the house, on the second floor, looking down when a train comes by. It’s an old-fashioned steam locomotive. I can see into the neighbor’s backyard on the right. They have a little train, about knee high, just an engine and coal car, that goes out and greets the train when it passes. I see this several times in the dream and conclude that the neighbors have a motion sensor along the rails. Or maybe they’re just sitting inside, waiting for a train. I never see them, though I know the man is bald, in his late fifties/early sixties, white and wears glasses and flannel shirts.

I’m back in the backyard, working in the bed headboard. It’s an old piece but mass produced, one we purchased from J.C. Penney when we were young, with decoupage flowers.

The cat, a ginger, starts talking to me. His enunciation isn’t very good but it’s clear enough that I know that he’s talking about birds. I snort this away, amused. Cats and birds are like sun and sky. The cat insists, “You have to see these birds, Michael.”

I follow the cat just to appease him. We go down a sloping meadow to a small cottage surrounded by glossy dark green bushes. “There they are,” the cat tells me.

I hear the birds before I see them and know that they’re parrots. Five of them, green, red, blue, and yellow prominent among them, flock toward us, chatting at us while coming up to see what and who we are. I worry about the cat and birds fighting and hurting one another, so I’m wary and cautious. But the birds interest me. I tell the cat that they’re parrots. He’s intrigued. I tell the birds that the animal with me is a cat and that he and I live up the hill from them.

I then see a snake. Don’t know what kind it is. It moves fast and is gone. I worry again: will it bite or harm me, the cat, the birds? I tell the cat, “There’s a snake here, watch it.” He’s immediately interested in trying to find it.

I retreat back up to my house with him, away from the colorful, noisy parrots. Back in my yard, I tell my wife, “There are parrots down there. Come down and see them.”

That’s where it ends.

4

A Blue Dream

To begin, I was in bed with another man. We’d been sleeping. Both of us were in our undershorts and nothing else. We were young and muscular. He was a little bigger than me. I went to get out of bed but he grabbed me and pulled me back. We began wrestling, with him trying to pin me down. I pushed him up and away while saying, “I’m stronger than I look. It’s time you learn that.”

I leaped out of bed and dashed into the dining room. A large square table was full of people already enjoying breakfast and chatting. My wife was seated at one corner so I went there. Something was on the floor. I bent and picked it up: her Fitbit with its silver mesh band. Beside it was something black: the Fitbit charger. I was annoyed to have to be picking up after her. Getting her attention, I said, “Were you doing something?”

“Yes.” She took the two items. “I was charging my Fitbit. I forgot. Thank you.”

Realizing that I was only in my undershorts — blue bikini briefs — I sprinted back to the bedroom to dress. This wasn’t the same room where I’d been sleeping, but the master bedroom, where my baggage and clothing were. Three young men were in there making the bed. The duvet was a deep blue and the bedroom suite was a beautiful dark wood set. China blue carpeting was on the floor.

One young man came to me and said, “We have bad news for you. We’re going to move this furniture out of here. It’s too beautiful to be in here. It needs to be put somewhere where it can be protected.”

I laughed. “It’s fine where it is, it’s safe.”

The man said, “No, it needs to be moved. It’s barely used and it’s going to get damaged.”

I answered, “It’s used more than you think. If you want something to do, there’s a place where you can go.” I leaned down and pointed out a window. “Oh, you can’t see it, but there’s a little amusement park down there. Oh, wait.” I remembered then that it had closed.

My wife came in. I told her that the young men wanted to move the bedroom furniture to protect it. They didn’t think it was being used. “It’s been used at least ten times this year,” I finished.

“Oh, more than that,” my wife answered.

I said, “Do you remember when your mother brought this bright blue duvet? That was so out of character for her. I was just telling these guys about the little amusement park over there but I remembered that it’s closed now.”

She said, “It’s not closed.”

“Yes, it is. Remember, it changed hands.”

“It went to the Fishers but it’s open.”

“It went to them but they closed it.”

She stuck her hand out. “Bet.”

I ignored her hand. We went outside, toward the mail box. Others came up. My wife got into a conversation. While they were talking, I looked down at my left leg and noticed there was a large pale C on my calf. I thought there had been something wrong with it. Bending down, I rubbed it and the C went away. I discovered that it’d just been something traced in dust on my laugh. I chuckled about that, pleased with the discovery.

Dream end.

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The Command Complex Dream

I arrived at a command complex. Although ultra futuristic in appearance, full of technology, it was no longer used. I wasn’t associated with it or the military but was familiar with it because of my past, and found it a friendly space. There were no windows and only one door, standard for such places, which were like vaults. Dark blue dominated, with matching carpet and walls. The console positions were all flat black glass with touch screens. As I went about exploring, others entered. I realized that they, like me, were past military. None of us were in the service any longer. We all chatted and introduced ourselves.

We realized some event was taking place. Console positions were powering up on their own, displaying incoming threat analysis. Despite this, we were all in high-spirits. Many people sat at console positions, taking the problem on. As I examined the consoles, I noticed that lines of red and yellow lights circled the positions and were growing brighter. Somehow, I recognized this as a trap. Warning the others, I told them to back off the consoles because something was about to happen. After they all drew back a few feet, the positions opened and emitted spurts of gas. If they’d been where they were, they would have been affected, so my warning saved them. All were grateful.

Things wound down. I got on my hands and knees, checking something out. As I was, I looked up to see a tall, white man enter. I knew he was retired four-star general. He paused as he reached me. I realized I was impeding his way and discovered my legs and feet were somehow under the carpet. As I apologized and laughed, wondering how I’d managed that, he brushed it off as inconsequential and went past. I stood and joined him. We chatted about trivialities and the shook hands and he left.

Others had come in again. One was a black female. I joined her at a table but then was called over by two other women. They were over at a display and had discovered a curtain. It had SLIDELL sewn on in in yellow thread. They asked if that was me. I said that it could be because one, sometimes people used that as a variation of my name, and two, such a misspelling sometimes showed up on correspondence. But, I said, I thought it was doubtful because we were at Bitburg AB in Hahn, Germany, and I’d only been there twice.

I returned to the table in the back and chatted with the seated black woman, sitting beside her as I did. I knew her and we exchanged information about what had been going on in our lives since we’d last seen one another. Others then came in and sat down opposite her. I realized after a moment that people were arriving to pay her homage. I thought it inappropriate to be sitting with her because that was a position of honor and she was the one being honored, but she told me to stay beside her. I did as person after person arrived to tell her how great it had been working with her.

Dream fade out.

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Choose Your Color

It was a strange and strong blur of a dream, if that makes sense. In a crowd. Seems like I was going somewhere, following the crowd, like we were heading into a concert or amusement park. Currents of excitement. Streams of chatter and laughter. I’m with others in my party, half-listening but tuned out of them, mostly just there, impatiently queuing, moving forward with halting, shuffling steps. But I don’t mind. I’m going forward. The destination is almost in view ahead. Fresh air. Forested hills and low mountains cup us in a bowl from what I see. Late afternoon blue sky. Darkening but still daylight, cruising toward night. Warm but cooling.

Odd. Saw myself from a perspective down below. Looking up. Perspective focused on me. Following me through the crowd.

Then, interrupted. Discover hands before me. Three? Four? They’re closed into fists. Open. Colors are on the palm. Paper? Red. Blue. Yellow. Purple. Voice says, “Choose your color.”

I’m confused. Try backing away. Wonder where my people are. Who this person is. Why I’m being asked to choose. He persists. I’m blocked in by the crowd. Can’t get away from him. Never see anything of him but his hands holding these colors.

French blue. Sunflower yellow. Apple red. Bright purple. It calls me. I point at it. “Purple.”

Dream end.

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A Blue Puzzle

I was a young boy, sitting on the floor, putting together a puzzle. Every piece was a shade of blue. Most were dark blue. The pieces weren’t like jigsaw puzzle pieces but were irregularly shape and not interlocking. Sometimes they seemed like they were pieces of tin while other times, they were cloth. Those differences peeved me. How was I supposed to put them together when they were such different materials?

People were going by. No one stopped to help, although an old man, in an overcoat, with a hat and cane, sunglasses covering his eyes, stopped to watch. Aware of his presence, I began working more diligently. Achieving some success, I became happier, more determined. Wrestling I found some tin snips. I saw no reason not to use them and started cutting shapes to fit together. In minutes, I had completed the puzzle. It was a large, uniformly blue rectangle, like a flag.

Awakening, I thought, I pulled a Kirk, cheating on the Kobayashi Maru Test, to win. Hah!

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