The Sick Dream

I was at work. Tired. Becoming more tired. Then, sleepy. Eyes were falling shut. Body slumping over. Nothing I could do.

A friendly co-worker, male, was trying to take care of me. Help me. But he was helpless. My work shift ended. He tried helping me leave. I couldn’t. Everything was a strain. He was telling me, “Come on, I’ll get you help.” I was replying, “I’m okay, I just want to sleep.”

Became separated from him. Found myself on a cement sidewalk by an asphalt road. An intersection. Naked. Crawling. Barely awake. Cars passing me. One, a black Chevy Suburban, stopped. The driver asked, “Are you alright? Do you need help?”

I kept going. Found clothes. Blue jeans. Pale tee shirt. Boots. Managed to dress. Get on my feet. Walked, swaying and stumbling. Eyes barely open. Brain coddled in thick pudding. Thoughts almost non-existent. Had garbage in a small white bag. Began looking to dispose of it. Saw a booth. Constructed of plywood. Took it there.

Food booth. The man behind the booth counter asked, “What do you want to order?”

I handed him the bag of garbage. He took it. Tossed it away behind him. “What do you want?”

Mute, I shook my head. Moved on. Thinking, sick. Still sick. But getting better. I was walking. On my feet. Swaying less. People began speaking to me. I began comprehending them. Interacting with them. Answering questions. Two young women joined me. They asked me if I need help. No, I was okay. Then, could I help them? They needed information.

Initially, I balked. Wasn’t my area. Didn’t know anything about it. Then I told them I would help. I would find the answers to their questions and get back to them. Trotted from one place to another, seeking answers. Inadvertently stumbled through someone’s garden while attempting a short cut. They’d just set it up. Planted it. Nothing was growing. Backing out, I fixed the damages. Then ran down to the other end of town. Thinking, anyone seeing me would think he runs everywhere.

I was running everywhere through a busy, hilly city. Felt good. The sickness was gone. I stopped running. Looked around to see where I was. Thought, where do I want to go?

Dream end.

A Dad Dream

Dad called me in my dream. Told me that he wanted me to be more like I used to be. “How was that?” I asked. “Silly. Goofy. Fun-loving,” he answered.

I didn’t know I’d changed. A lot was happening in dream world, so I ended the call. Part of what was happening were politicians making speeches. One was a woman. POC. Married to a white male with silver hair. Hubby was pretty much an idiot. He marched up and down the street making ludicrous announcements. I kept thinking, no, that’s not right. I heard the pol state, “I think I’m just about done with him.”

Meanwhile, I was going around my compound. Showing it off. Explaining that I had plenty of room for a number of people to love. I had seventeen homes. Most were new. Brick. Two stories. Large yards. All set off asphalt streets.

So I’m involved, walking around, telling people about the houses, showing them what is what, talking to the pols, when Dad calls again. In the middle of doing multiple things, I answered the phone in a silly way, like, “Hello, this is Michael, unsecure line, U.S. Air Force.” As I’m speaking, I thinking, that’s wrong, what am I saying?

It was Dad. He was laughing. “That’s more like it. That’s how you used to be.”

We discuss that for a few. Then he says, “You should get military veterans to help you.”

I reply, “I have some.”

Then, like that, Dad and I are walking toward one another, hanging up our phones, as I point out veterans and tell him, “I have all kinds of veteran helping me take care of people and the houses. They’re all volunteers.”

Dad replies, “Well, that’s good. It looks like you have it all taken care of.”

Dream end.

A Confused Dream

Middle-aged, I was teaching others. Two younger people, male and female, were under my tutelage. I was teaching them to deliver something. The something was a small white contain, about the size of a six ounce jar of skin cream, with gold metallic lettering. Don’t know what the lettering said.

This was to be delivered to customers for use in a larger project. It was important to the customers. My assistants and I had three cars to choose from. Wanting one of them to drive, I let them choose which car. A small white car was selected. One began driving. Raining, we were on a crowded freeway. Underway, we discovered that they didn’t know where they were going because they had not taken the print out with them.

I acknowledged that as my error, as I was supposed to be teaching them. Lesson one, I told them: first, make sure you know where you’re going.

We stopped to address this. The male student began peeling the bottom of the white jar open. He was removing layers of lead. “What are you doing?” I asked, amused.

“I’m going to look inside the jar to see what it’s in it. That might give us a clue about where we’re supposed to take it.”

“One, there’s a black lid on top to open the container,” I said. “And opening it will ruin it for the customer. We’ll go back and get the address.”

We returned to HQ. This was a small office building, parking underneath, additional parking outside, on a small campus. Inside, another office working, female, at a computer, asked me, “What are you doing back so soon?”

I picked up the paper with the address. “We forgot the address. We didn’t know where we were going.”

Leaving with the paper, I became confused. Where did I park? I found my car, a red Porsche. Except, I remembered, I didn’t come in my car. That’s right, I came with the students in the little white car. I’d gotten into Porsche and had moved the car. Looking for a convenient parking space, I pulled it. It was reserved for another, but I thought management would take care of it. When I left the car, I discovered that it was white. That perplexed me for several seconds. I was certain that I’d been in a red car. How could it turn white. Dismissing that, I went into the rain, looking for the other car.

The Blemish Dream

Big, building. Warehouse or hanger. Don’t know. Not specified. Lot of other folks. Most are young or middle-aged. I’m young, late twenties. I’m working on a computer. Requires me to press F3 to enter data. I’m doing it, happily. Others are gathering. Most are strangers who introduce themselves to me. Many attractive young women. They take an interest in me.

Something is spilled on my shirt. No problem, I’ll change it. I take that one off to go find another one. A middle-aged woman interrupts me. She’s talking about mentoring me. I’m pleased. Two young women, crushing on me, come and sit by me. They’re very flirtatious. I enjoy the attention. Then, something subtly changes. They suddenly withdraw a little. I don’t know why.

A man my age comes along. He takes me aside. “Dude, you have a large blemish on your back.”

“I do?” I reach back, trying to feel it, twist around, stupidly attempting to see it. “Where is it? What is it?”

“I can show you. Come on.”

We walk. He’s talking as we go, trying to explain what the blemish is and where. I’m thinking, inflamed pimple or black head. He’s telling me, no, it’s not quite like that. Than what is it?

Others intercept us. He’s taken away for a moment but says he’ll be right back. Meanwhile, the mentor woman comes up. “You have a blemish on your back,” she says. “You need to put a shirt on and cover that up. It’s a distraction.”

Okay, but I want to know more about the blemish. “I can show you,” she answers.

We go off together to look. But then we’re separated. I turn around and she’s not there.

I decide that I need to pee. I head for the bathroom. It’s a cluttered place with a guard at the door. A friend is behind me. He tells me that I have a blemish on my back. I should put a shirt on. I answer, yes, I know. Head in to pee.

The ‘bathroom’ doesn’t resemble anything like a bathroom. Completely cluttered with junk. Looking around, I ask, “Where is the toilet?” I really need to pee by now. Finding a drain, I piss into it. Screw it. Like it’ll make a difference in that place.

I leave to go back to entering data. Two more friends approach and mention the blemish on my back, making it a total of five who mentioned it. The mentoring woman gathers us. As everyone goes to her, I slip off and find an oversized black tee-shirt. It’s been in my wardrobe but I’ve worn it. It a souvenir from somewhere, with writing on the front.

The mentoring woman tells the gathering to go to another area. I help lead the way because I understand where she indicated. We’re directed to a corner. I recognize it as the ‘bathroom’ location. That confuses me, but yes, the same guard is within, validating our identity and letting us pass. I’m surprised as anything. We’re going into the bathroom?

But, yes. In the bathroom is a tube with a ladder. We climb it and find ourselves in a dining hall of picnic tables. I find a table and sit. Another young woman comes over and asks if she can sit with me. The other two young woman witness this. They look jealous as the newcomer sits with me. She’s very touchy, patting my hand, my shoulder, letting her hand linger on me. Another woman joins me on my other side and starts flirting with me. I’m amused to be the center of so much attention, and a little uncomfortable.

The dream ends.

Old Computer Dream

I’m at a work station. One those stands with a big tan CRT monitor on top, tower PC, keyboard on sliding tray. Something from the 1990s. Whole thing is just wide enough for the monitor. I’m one of many at such computer work stations. Large room. Wide and tall. I’m in the last row, on the end. Fourth one in line. This gives me space to my right. It’s open there and behind me.

Everyone is doing through thing. It’s a hubbub of clicking, clacking, talking, laughing. I’m doing my thing, reviewing files for a dead friend. The computer files on the screen on red. They fill the screen. When I print things out, the paper and folders are red. I suppose, when I’m wondering about the red while I’m dreaming, that the red is supposed to be symbolic of something. I don’t get it. Urgency? Warning? Don’t know. I’m also wondering why I’m going through folders about a dead guy. He’d been a friend but he died a while ago. My rational side intrudes: it’s your birthday. You’re sixty-five. Dead guy was a year older than you. Never lived to be sixty-five. Collect the dots.

Aha, dots probably collected. My wife is pestering me for specific information. This annoys me. She flits in to demand I look at something, sure that it’s important. I already looked and moved on while she wasn’t there. But she keeps coming back, asking to see specific files that I already read and closed.

Many others are behind me. Two women and a man are among them. The women are attractive. I gather that they’re foreigners. Maybe British and Scottish. They’re friends. I think one is with the guy. He seems American. He comes and goes. I keep catching snatches of the women’s conversation. They’re speaking of going someplace, doing something. I’m familiar with the areas and offer some unrequested advice, which they shun.

“Keep yourself to yourself,” I tell myself, sorting files on the computer. I’m testy with my wife as she comes and asks for information on a specific date and event. Without responding to her verbally, I search for the appropriate document, drilling down through information. She doesn’t realize what I’m doing and hectors me. I snap back with an explanation. She then goes away.

Meanwhile, the British and Scottish women have become friendlier. As if they sensed they rebuffed me and now want my friendship — or something — they step closer. I’m aware that they’re surreptitiously attempting to see what I’m doing. They make a subtle show of patting me on my shoulder, touching my arm.

It all confused and wearied me. I move off the dead man’s files. Why should I be involved with them? I find myself instead working on the files for another who worked for me. Investigating this person makes no more sense than checking the dead man’s files.

I understand it all when I awaken. The sense of dissatisfaction, frustration. The searching in myself for answers about directions and desires.

The Pizza Dream

To start off, I’m at home with Mom, working on some project. She’s young — thirties — I’m young — twenties. Others are present. I’m working on a project. Bustling about (typical Mom style), speaking with others, Mom doesn’t wholly approve. She’s saying I’ve already done too much of that. She doesn’t want any more. I’m laughing her off because I don’t think she understands what I’m doing and doesn’t want to know. I’ve decided I’ll continue in secret and surprise her with the results.

As that’s underway, I’m also given pills to take. These are pale white capsules. Eschewing taking them, I secret them in a drawer. In there, I discover I have a cache of red capsules and blue capsules that I refused to take. It’s quite a collection. I close the drawer before others notice.

I then work on my project. I’m collecting information from the net. I’ve found a great deal that I like. They’re giving me ideas about what to do and how to do it. I collect ideas with enthusiasm, sticking them into the same drawer as the pills, not letting others see.

Food is being served. Pizza! I dislike the pizza being served and mock it. A friend and I go off for a walk. We’re walking through a very busy city, following sidewalks, crossing streets heavy with vehicular traffic, crossing railroad tracks, following traffic-light guidance, talking as we go. My friend is holding a wedge of pizza as we walk and talk. He finally tells me that he’s holding onto it for me. “As you didn’t like the other pizza offered, I thought I’d give you this one to try. It’s very good.”

I’m disinclined to eat more pizza at that point. He keeps on as we’re walking. I finally accept it and take a bite, complaining that it’s cold as I do. The pizza is alright. Nothing I’m not wowed by it, he brings out another piece. “Different pizza,” he says, offering it to me. I’m wondering, “Where are you getting these pizzas?” I’m looking around him, amused, trying to see if there’s a pizza truck or something beside him. He, amused, is evasive, refusing to say, but repeating, “It’s my mission to bring you pizza until you find one you like.”

I’m laughing at that. “What a mission. How’d you get roped into that role?”

“I volunteered,” he replied. “I wanted it.”

We’ve been crossing streets as we speak, careful of the traffic. Now we reach a chain-link fence abutting a white cement sidewalk and stop. The sidewalk looks fresh and new. In fact, that’s the general impression of everything that I see. It’s a bright, sunny day. I’ve been enjoying the walk. We’re both holding a slice of pizza. I take a bite of mine and ask, looking around, “Which direction do we go?”

Dream end.

The Mt Tam Dream

Mount Tam, full name, Mount Tamalpais, is part of the Marin Hills. Twenty-six hundred feet high, it won’t awe with its rise about the land the way that Mounts Hood and Shasta do, or McLaughlin. I knew abut it from living in the SF Bay area and Peninsula for fourteen years. We’d read about it, and visited twice, maybe three times, during our local explorations.

Didn’t stop me from dreaming about it. First came name confusion. I was being told to go to Mt. Tam. Mt. Tam? Yes, Mt. Tam. We exercised some Laurel & Hardy exchanges about what was being said. I’d quickly reached the point where I understood that I was being told to go to Mt. Tam. My point, which I struggled to convey with little humor, was, why do I need to go to Mt. Tam? But they — the unseen folks I was speaking to, but who sounded and seemed male — were fixated on ensuring that I understood the place’s name without clarifying why going there was important. The back and forth eventually felt as painful as a bad tooth.

They gradually led me to believe there is something in Mt. Tam, the something never being explained, continuing my stretch of exasperation. I’m supposed to go to Mt. Tam to get something that’s there that I’ll know what it is when I get there. Seems significantly vague.

Then, going over the dream, I wonder, was Mt. Tam a literal destination being directed to me from my dream masters or a metaphor for matters churning through my subconscious? Bonus discussion points, for me, anyway: how much of this dream was influenced by The Overstory, as I’m currently reading that. For that matter, how much is generated from wrestling with the novel in progress?

The Friends Dream

This is not about the television series. This dream was about Mary & Bruce, names given to them for this dream. May worked for me. I met Bruce through others. He and I became good friends. He and Mary married.

Bruce has died in the dream. I just found out about it. He’s such a wonderful person, I’m completely shocked by his passing.

Mary has become a VIP. I want to see her to learn about Bruce’s death. In parallel, I’m told by another that Mary got him a good deal on a Jeep. I decide that I’d like to try to get a good deal when I see Mary to learn about Bruce’s death.

I call her office. There’s a little verbal altercation between me and her assistant. They don’t know who I am. Mary is a VIP with a heavy schedule. I’d like to see her. Mary comes on the line and tells me, “Of course I’ll see you, Sergeant Seidel,” just like we’re still in the service and she’s working for me. “I’ll make time.”

I go to her via a traveling montage. Arriving, I learn that Mary is struggling to get some photographs developed. I look for and find the photographs. They’re of her and Bruce and their children while on vacation. There’s also some photographs of symbols on walls. I understand that photographing them is forbidden. This is why the photos aren’t developing right. But I still believe I can fix them.

Mary and I met and walk along outside. She’s lovely as ever. Yes, she can get me a car discount, she tells me. We don’t really talk about Bruce’s death, just that he abruptly passed away. She misses him but she’s okay.

She has to return to work. I walk with her. We come across a man. He’s a VP who works for Mary. He’s tried to develop the photographs and couldn’t do it. I tell Mary that I want to try. She agrees. Tells me to take the photographs and see what I can do, but she wants them back. I agree. I’m wearing a leather jacket and slip them inside. Then I get on a motorcyle and ride away.

Dream end.

The Assistant Dream

I was walking alone through an empty school. While not recognized by my mind while awake, I knew it in the dream. I encountered other people. They began congratulating me. “Looks like you were selected. Congratulations.”

“For what?” I asked back, shaking hands. Well, people told me, they were sending an assistant out to help one lucky person, and you won. It was announced today.

Surprised and happy, I was inclined to turn it down. “I don’t need an assistant, thanks.” Apparently, it wasn’t optional.

I went on my way. A woman accosted me. She held hands with one child. Several others were with her. “I heard about you and I wanted to meet you,” she said.

Hi, nice to meet you, I answered back, inquiring about who she was. Turns out she was a friend’s wife. Those were her children. Well, it was nice to meet them all, I said, shaking hands all around. Pleasantries were paraded out, then she took her children and led them away while I continued through the school.

I entered the gymnasium. Another woman with children was there, saying very similar things as the first, about wanting to meet me. I inquired more, why did she want to meet me? Well, she’d heard about me from her husband. It dawned on me that I didn’t know my friends’ families, and that those families were making an effort to change that. After chatting with her, I sat at a table, where another wife and family approached, talking about wanting to meet me. Meanwhile, my assistant, a tall, beautiful woman, arrived in the gym. She was famous and I recognized her. While she approached, I was still talking to a woman introducing her family.

The assistant arrived at the table. Excusing myself for a moment, I broke off my conversation to address the assistant. I told her, while flattered, I thought others required an assistant more than I did, so I was turning her services down. She answered that I didn’t have a choice, that she would be with me for a while, which was where the dream ended.

The New Clothing Dream

A friend and I were staying with a gay couple. I seemed to be in my early twenties. The couple lived in a city apartment a few floors up. A big city, the place was busy and noisy. I was there to get rid of my old clothing, and then I was taking a trip to get new clothing. We were flying out for that purpose the next day. Meanwhile, my buddy wanted us to go out on the town before leaving. Parallel to this, our hosts were throwing a party (unrelated to our visit). They’d also received a new table and were putting it together.

As I’d chosen to get rid of my old clothes except what I was wearing and what I was traveling in the next day, I decided to find something to wear from the clothes I was getting rid of to wear out on the town. It should be something festive. I found an old pale yellow shirt with a red parrot embroidered on the left chest, a shirt I haven’t owned in over thirty years.

I paused while dressing to watch them trying to put the new table together. It wasn’t going well. They thought parts were missing and were calling the manufacturer for help. I thought that I would be doing it differently, as they seemed disorganized, but I believed part of the issue was that they already had too many people involved, so I remained uninvolved.

My friend was urging me to hurry up. It was night, and the night was calling him. He was wearing jeans and a maroon puffy jacket. I was only in a shirt. “Is it cold out? Do I need a jacket?” Without awaiting an answer, I went into my old clothes for a jacket. I pulled it on, but then decided it was too heavy and replaced with a lighter jacket, an old black “Members Only” jacket I used to have. I then worried, maybe I should change shirts because the parrot was no longer seen. But I left it at that. He and I scampered down the steps and into the brightly-lit night to have fun.

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