Tag: Dream

The Pinkerton Dream

I was a young man in this dream — which sounds like it could be the title of something, doesn’t it? — and working in some office. I don’t recall any work details other than I was happy and productive, respected and appreciated by management and my co-workers. A standard variation of the U.S. office space served as setting.

One of my bosses came by and said, “Have you heard of the Pinkerton deal?” I answered that I knew who or what the Pinkertons are, and he replied, “You haven’t heard then. But you will.” He later came by and said, “The Pinkertons have made you an offer, but they want you to move to Austin, Texas. Let me know if you’re interested because we’ll better their offer and move you to Austin. We’d love to have you in Austin.”

I replied, “I’m not interested in moving to Austin so I probably won’t take the deal.”

I received the Pinkerton deal later. I didn’t immediately turn them down because it was a great offer, and I was flattered and impressed. I told them that and they replied that they’d give me the same deal without the need for me to move because they really wanted me to join them.

The same boss as before came by. I told him of the new offer and said I was going to accept it. He said that they wanted to keep me so they would match any offer, and to make sure I spoke with them before I accepted any offers.

Astonished — and again flattered — I agreed. That’s where the dream left it.

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The Emails from the Past Dream

I was in a small and modern well-lit office, relaxing in a black office chair with my feet up on a desk, a cup of coffee at hand. A computer was on the desk behind me.

I began telling people things that were going to happen, doing so in an offhand way to a close circle of friends and family. I don’t recall details of what I said but they were supposed to happen within a few days to a week. Friends returned and told me that they’d mentioned it to other people who believed these and accepted them as prophecies, surprising me. I laughed about it and then thought, well, I should be doing this via more than just comments made to others, so I began sending texts and emails. I thought of it as a lark, but yet more people were said to believe what I said, and that my following was growing. Friends began suggesting that I start doing things on Youtube, IG, or other social media. I made different jokes about that and then thought, what if I started sending the emails out in the past. As I began doing this, going back and sending emails from a day or two before, I wondered how I was doing that. As it worked though, I thought, can I go further back in time and send emails from yet further back to warn people about things? I tested that idea by going back two to three days at a time at first. Mind you, I wasn’t time traveling, but using a computer that could send emails out from the past. Taking a leap of faith, I decided to try going all the way back to when I first became familiar with email, in 1991.

My computer screen had been white with black sans-serif letters. When I went back in time in the email system, the screen became black with green block letters. I laughed when I saw that, because that’s how I remember the screens being then. I discovered then that how far back I went dictated how far ahead I could predict things. Going back to 1991 allowed me to make predictions for thirty years ahead. I also started learning that I could predict for specific places and people.

All of this continued to take place with me in that office, feet up on my desk, a cup of coffee at hand.

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The Angry Dream

First dream phase I was in the military, but I was a civvie in the second. I found some red tile and learned it was available, so I had it moved and then spent a day reflooring a place. I put the tiles in place but then had to pour some stuff over it to hold it in place. No time to do that before the others returned so I went to meet them and tell them what was happening with the floor.

I walked in. A young female airman in standard uniform of blue skirt and light blue shirt walked in. Looking down at the floor as she walked, she started smiling and kicking the floor apart.

I stormed up to her and almost grabbed her. I almost went for her throat but caught myself. Seeing me, she went white. I said in my hardest angry senior NCO voice, “What are you doing?” As that was rhetorical, I then introduced myself, told her what I’d spent the day doing, and then had her get down and put it all together. As she was doing that, she began crying. Others entered and asked about what was going on. I ordered her to stand up and explain to everyone what was going on.

Next, I’m a civilian working at some company. I work alongside some pompous jackass who thinks himself a god. He has a routine of stealing others’ ideas and not sharing credit. He likes to belittle people and spit at them. Knowing this, I began working on a project in secret. Part of that required me to order porn from a catalog. (Yeah, I know, strange, but it’s a dream.) This idiot confronts me at one point, claiming to know what I’m doing, mocking me with a smirk as he thinks he reveals my plans. He’s completely wrong, so I don’t react.

When I finish my project, I take it to a meeting. He’s sitting behind a table. After I explain the project and show my results to others, who praise it, he starts verbally attacking me, mocking and smirking, and then spits in my hair. Well, that was it.

Verbally lashing him, I lunged across the table. As he shrank back into the corner with a look of shock, I grabbed him by the hair, lifted him up, and spit in his face several times, asking him how he liked being spit on. After releasing him, I told him that it’s indicative of who he is that when I came across the table for him, no one tried to stop me or said a word. The look on his face was priceless.

Oddly, the guy looked like Benedict Cumberbatch, an actor who I enjoy.

Dream end.

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1988 Dream

I kept encountering an error message. Sometimes it was written on a printout: [Error 1988: Michael does not exist]. I saw it in emails and text messages. Sometimes it was also spoken in the same voice my Roomba makes an announcement: “Error 1988: Michael does not exist.” As this happened, I was hurrying down hallways, looking over my shoulder, and pushing on doors, trying to find one that opens, hunting for an exit.

But, in one sense, it was understandable. On vacation, a person who needs isolation and solitude, who enjoys writing as their escape and therapy, who is forced to spend almost eighty percent of their time with other people, will end up dreaming about escape.

Right?

The question is, why those numbers?

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The Prisoner Dream

Sooo…I’m on a ship. Never see it, just know that I’m onboard something. It’s huge, apparently.

I’ve been captured and I’m being transported. Zip ties bind my hands, along with my two companions. Either via dream mechanics or I’ve forgotten what transpired, I’m then free of my ties, then lose the two people with me. I know my captors are tracking me. I sneak through this big vessel, going through sections housing people sitting in roads, following a washed-out dirt road, slipping through a jungle…

As I go, I observe the passengers. They’re also prisoners. None are bound in any way. It looks like they’re just taking a flight, traveling somewhere. I know better. Seeing a huge piece of cardboard, I realize that there’s a lot of waste and that we prisoners can utilize this waste to improve our situation. Food is hidden in different locations which we can eat, and there are materials we can use as clothing or to build shelters.

I try explaining to other prisoners what I’m thinking. Most don’t understand. Worse, they speak very loudly. One young woman finally understands me and tells the others. Going, “Oh, I see,” they lift a corner of the cardboard and see a pile of uneaten food. They all start passing food out and eating.

I hurry on because I know my captors are still after me. I come to a chute. In it, I find packaged food and help myself. Taking three of them with me, I move on.

I come to a sandy stretch. Not sure if it’s a desert or part of beach or something else. Briefly, I think, should I go through this? Am I going the right way?

I decide to go on because going back doesn’t seem feasible. As I trudge through the hot white sand, I became aware of small things fluttering around me. They’re on the sand and become airborne as I walk by them. They have wings, I see, and think that they look like very small, winged people about the size of ladybugs. All are white, in white clothing. As they fill the air around me, I see that all are females. They start landing on me, leaving small sand deposits. I start swatting them, trying to keep them away, and dust the sand off, and then I ‘know’ that they’re actually treating illnesses in me. I go still, because that will help them. The sand is gone. I’m instead in green water. The little fairy women are still treating me.

Dream end.

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A Multi-layered Dream

I was young, middle-aged, in my thirties, happy, confident, relaxed. I encountered a diverse dreamscape of buildings, floods, people, and events.

A young boy saving kittens was met several times. He never spoke. Seemed perhaps four. His features and complexion changed. He was never of one color, one ethnicity, but different each time that we met. I worried about him so I would seek him out.

Because a deluge was underway. A swollen black and gray sky loomed above. Flood waters were rising through valleys and ravines. I worried about the kittens and the boy. Gray, black, white kittens. They were newborns, fitting into the child’s hand. At first he had four gray kittens. Then he had four gray and four black. The third time he and I met, he had three each, gray, white, and black.

I’d go find him and learned that he liked to hang out in shallow gullies. I talked to him, questioning what he was going to do, and told him my worries about protecting the kittens. He listened and didn’t speak but pointed. I realized with relief that others were caring for the boy. He wasn’t alone, and the kittens were burrowing into tunnels. I never seen anything like it, but I immediately understood that they would be safe.

Through it all, despite worries, I was relaxed, confident, happy.

Interspersed with checking on the boy and his kittens, I was embedded in a ramshackle, old, cluttered office building, a red-brick form follows function design three stories tall, with lots of windows. Situated on the third floor, I looked over a long, grassy lawn. A young woman out there took directions from people in the building. Waking has robbed me of understanding of her role, but at one point in the dream, I wrote lengthy instructions for her, using a large sheet of cardboard and a black magic marker. My plan was to go out there and post it by her, sticking in the ground so that it was vertical. These were supposedly providing her course corrections based on my observations of all transpiring.

After writing the instructions, I decided not to post them and set them aside. But, surprise, the young woman — white as Caspar, short, with curley dark hair and a warm smile — came up, talking to me, and then said, “Oh, you’re the man who wrote the instructions.” I asked, “How’d you know that? I never posted them?” Looking at them beside me, she said, “I saw them from where I was. They made sense. Thanks for writing them.” I was surprised and delighted that she knew of them and pleased by her comments.

I’d been doing other things, drafting missives and instructions, making phone calls throughout all of this, preparing, because we were going through the evacuation stages. One aspect was I was dealing with multiple issues and was achieving impressive results. By finding and contacting quality assurance in various departments, providing them feedback and suggestions, and sometimes making a complaint, things were being fixed for me.

Others had noticed and finally, a swarthy, slender man approached me. Much younger than me, in his early twenties, he inquired about how I’d fixed something. I told him that I’d lobbied the QA function in that department, and they’d worked with their people to improve things.

Other things went on — like the young woman approaching me and checking on the boy and his kittens — and then it was time for me to leave. As I prepared, the young man returned, pleased and proud, telling me about how he’d used my guidance to fix something, and how, now that he knew to do this, he was going to fix everything.

I educated him that you can’t go to that same QA for other things, explaining, “Every department has a QA. Each must be individually contacted and the problems for that department brought to their attention. They will fix them.”

He thought about this and then nodded understanding, a little down that he had much more to do than he realized. I told him that I had confidence in him that he would do it. He brightened at that, and then I picked up my black bag and set off.

Dream end.

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Bewildering Red, White, and Blue Dream

I was staying in a two-story place with many other relatives. A diverse group, among the others were my father, two nephews, a sister-in-law, and one nephew’s wife and children. We were staying in the building temporarily. It impressed by being old and mundane, cheaply furnished with things which might have been procured at the curb on trash day or from secondhand stores and estate sales. It would only be for a few days. We understood and accepted its limitations.

One thing that did stand out was the owners’ use of red, white, and blue bunting and decorations. Much of it was worn and torn, and some of it was stained and moldy.So much of it in some many places, it was a great distraction. Especially, we noted to one another, since it’s not any sort of holiday that would call for decorations like that. It seemed like they wore their patriotism on their sleeves and by doing so much of it, they demeaned it. But it was their place, so WTH?

My nephew’s wife decided on another course. Without telling us, she and her daughters took much of the bunting down on the second floor because it annoyed them. I didn’t approve and told her so. Her husband, my nephew, defended her in his loud voice, joking about the whole thing. Dad agreed with me, it shouldn’t have been done, but shrugged it off, refusing to involve himself.

Everyone except Dad and I took off. A fuller understanding of the dwelling emerged. It was like a shoebox stood on one end. All the walls were white, except one upstairs, which was pink. The upper floor had a loft so you could look over and see about half of the bottom floor and the front entrance. No furniture was in that space. That floor was covered by a thin, worn, and soiled harvest-gold carpet with an extremely short pile, almost like indoor/outdoor carpeting.

Someone came to the door and then stepped in. Looking over the loft’s railing, I saw that it was a local police officer dressed in a black uniform. He said he was investigating vandalism. Going down and speaking with him, I realized that the owners had reported removing the second-floor bunting as vandalism. I told the officer what’d happened. While doing that, I indicated one wall to our left. Although white and broad, red, white, and blue ribbons covered the wall. These ribbons were like a blue ribbon given out as an award. There must have been thousands.

The officer considered everything and then said it didn’t sound like something he should be dealing with and left. I went back up and told Dad about this. As I did, the others returned. I repeated the story about what’d happened.

The others again prepared for an outing, and Dad and I again remained behind. Someone knocked on the front door, and then a state trooper entered. Looking up at me, he told me he was there to investigate reported vandalism. I laughed at this. Going down to talk with him, I discovered the ribbons gone from the first-floor wall, revealing a well-used and large corkboard. I asked the officer about the report, laughing as he explained that he was looking for missing ribbons, and then told him about the red, white, and blue ribbons which had covered the wall. The rest returned while the officer was there. Dad came down and told the officer that we’d pay for the missing bunting and ribbons. The officer replied, “No, the people wanted prosecution.”

The trooper decided it wasn’t his problem. He’d make the report and it would be forwarded to DA for further action.

Dream end.

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The Kissing & Dancing Dream

I wasn’t the person I am now, and I wasn’t married to the woman with me now. I still knew it was me but didn’t like the same, something known as perspective changed, as they frequently do in my dreams.

My wife and I were in a room with many others. Double beds lined the walls with the headboards against the walls. Every bed had a couple in it, including my wife and I, fully dressed with shoes on, under bed covers. Around the room were men and women, the men in either dark blue or white shirts, with loose black suits and hats, and the women in beige blouses, something with beige skirts, but sometimes with black skirts. Sometimes, the women wore a white bonnet.

The men and women not in beds were clapping their hands and dancing, thumping their thick-soled shoes against the wooden floor, chanting, “Kiss and dance, kiss and dance, kiss and dance.” Laughter kept interrupting as they focused on specific couples.

In bed with my ‘wife’, I moved close to her, getting face to face. Like most in the room, we were about forty years old, given one or two years either way. She looked white, wan, and tired. I asked, “What do you say? Should we kiss and dance?”

She answered, “No, I’m too tired.”

Disappointed, I snapped, “That’s what you always say.” Frustrated, I climbed out of bed and walked around the room as the “kiss and dance” chant continued. Other couples were kissing and several got out of bed and danced in the room’s center.

Another man climbed into bed with my wife. Outraged, I saw that she let him kiss her. At that point, a man called an end to the festivities and told us, “Everyone needs to go home now.”

My wife and the man left the bed. She came to me and said, “We should go.” Everyone else had already filed out.

Rage stoked, I replied, “No.” I took her by her shoulders, pushed her back against a wall, and said, “I have three things to say to you.” Her eyes were wide; she did not speak. “One, you never want to kiss me. Two, I saw another man get in bed with you, and I saw you kissing that other man. I am tired of all of this. We are done. I’m going home. You need to find somewhere else to do.”

I left.

Dream end.

I felt tremendously liberated and strong after awakening from this dream.

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Thursday’s Theme Music

A sibilant swishing announced that Thursday had arrived. Moving with the dignity of a powerful superyacht, it pulled into August 4, 2022 and docked. Although people crowded about to see the day, most were ambivalent. It’s Thursday, yes, but really, that meant that it’s closer to Friday, Saturday, or Sunday for most. A few deeply rooted pessimists said, “That just means it’s closer to Monday.” Apparently, they’re not Monday fans.

Sunrise painted a pretty summer dawn at 6:07 AM, all green sky and blue trees and grasses, then realized it had it reversed and fixed it. Sunset is planned for 8:27 PM in our valley, unless something goes wrong. Even when it goes wrong, they immediately alter reality so that everything seems right. We’re left feeling like something is off, something is different, without ever being able to point to one thing and say, “That’s it,” and settle our confusion.

Temperatures are milder on this day, 59 when I got up at 7:30 ish, and now 70 F two hours later. A high of 34 C is expected this afternoon. We’ll see what they’re like. Most of the nineties I’ve met are friendly but some appear to be hotheads.

Our air quality has improved. We were cruising through yesterday afternoon at around 118 as shown by Purple Air. Then, at about 5:30, the readings all through the valley plummeted to the range of 2 – 20 and remained low since. Must be that a low has jumped into the area, shifting the wind patterns.

I had a dream last night. Wasn’t nearly as inspiring as MLK Jr’s dream, that I recall. Little is recalled except that I saved a little brown dog and gave it to some children. It’s germane for the day’s theme music because upon waking from that dream, The Neurons began playing “Save Your Tears” by The Weeknd (2020) and have it looping through the morning mental music stream. I didn’t ask for further details from The Neurons about why that song is playing. I know their game. They’ll tease, mock, and smirk, but they won’t explain. It was the theme music in April of 2021 but I’d need to drink my coffee to find another one today.

The coffee has landed. Stay positive, test negative, wear masks as necessary to take care of you and yours, etc. Here’s the music. Stay safe, wherever you are, and have a better one. Cheers

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The Red Mustang Dream

I was a young man, as I often am in my dreams, probably in my thirties. I was in the home of a woman I knew. It was a standard modern place but basic and clean. I was standing in a dining area by a patio slider. She wasn’t there, but two other young women and a young man were present. They were about ten years plus younger than me. We in the middle of a conversation in which I related to them that they were ‘taking the wrong medicine’ and told them what medicine they should be taking. The man walked out to get it even though I told him that I had it with me. One of the women left and the home owner returned. She asked what was going on so the other young woman and I explained it, with me doing most of the talking, telling her that they’d been using the wrong medicine. She appreciated me correcting them because one of them was her niece (I never knew which). The young man returned then, without medicine because he could ‘t find it as “everything is closed”. I gave him a huge black backpack which contained the medicine he and the others needed.

As the young man thanked me, the other woman returned and the homeowner announced that she was leaving. She told us we could stay or go, it was our choice. I said I was going because I needed to do other things. The young man left with me. We walked down a busy small-town street for a bit, and then separated. I went over and got into my Mustang. Red, it was a 1965 convertible in very good condition, highly polished, with a white interior and convertible top. I needed work on it, so I took it to this little place. I backed into a spot and then got out to get a number and get in line, because that’s how it worked there. As I was waiting, another person arrived and backed his car into the Mustang.

I was upset, more so because he shrugged it off and walked away. He was much smaller than me and a little younger. I confronted him, pointing out the damage. Body damage, on the driver’s side front, was very slight, but the tire was torn up. Looking at it, the tire was made of white foam mattress and had lost a large chunk from the accident. He talked to the man about it but he claimed it wasn’t his fault, went and got a number and got into line.

I was upset. He’d hit my car and wouldn’t take responsibility for it. A friend arrived and I told him about what had happened. The guy who’d hit my car was in line with several large companions, who had been there when I arrived. My friend said, “Know how to start a confrontation?” I shook my head and he said, “Let me show you.”

He walked up and attempted to grab the younger guy’s nut sack, but one of the big other guys instead did it to him, saying, “You trying to start a confrontation?”

That didn’t make sense to me. As my friend was released and limped off, departing the business, I decided that I would leave. As I went to depart, I encountered another young man with thick dark hair. He was looking into the shop and asked me if I would recommend it. I told him that it depended on what he needed and how badly he wanted it, but I was disappointed in the shop and told about the accident. I asked him what he was looking for. When he told me, I said, “I recognize you. I read about your story on the net.”

He verified that was him, and then the homeowner from the dream’s beginning arrived. As the young man looked across at her, he said, “Excuse me, that’s my mother.”

Dream end.

A note that the dream Mustang reminded me that Dad had a 1965 Mustang when he was stationed in Germany in the late 1960s, blue with a white convertible top and black interior, with a 289 and four speed. I wasn’t with him in Germany, but he showed me pictures of him with the car with its top down in Paris.

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