Tag: Dream

The Nineteenth Game Dream

I was introduced to a game. I’m not strong on remembering details, but coins were involved. These coins were copper, brass, and gold. They had patterns cut into them. The game was about matching and stacking coins in precise patterns. As each pattern was completed, the player advanced to the next game, which offered more complexities. The nineteenth game was the hardest game level.

Playing the game soon absorbed me. I played alone under a light, on a table. Sitting, bent over the table, I examined the pieces, selected the stacks and positions, arranged them, re-arranging them as necessary. If you had a piece wrong, the game ended. You had to follow a predestined set of arrangements.

I finally screwed up. A buzzer announced that I’d lost the game. Lights came up. A man entered. He informed me that I was playing the nineteenth game. Surprising news for me. He went on to say I was very close to finishing it, which pleased me, and then informed me that I was the only one left playing at that level. With those circumstances, they’d been streaming my play globally for the last twenty-four hours. Everyone was watching, cheering me on, hoping that I would win.

The experience left me happy but eager to begin again to reach and finish the nineteenth game.

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The Paying Dream

What else to call it? I begin in a modern, well-lit grocery store. I’m at the register to pay. The total is $15.87. I have the money to cover it, pay, take my plastic bag of goods, and leave.

I don’t know what I’m buying. Again, I’m there. Paying at the register. The total is twelve something. I debate about using my debit card or paying cash. I pay cash, figuring that I have just enough.

I’m walking into the grocery store to shop. It’s modern, well-lit, and busy. (The store is always modern, well-lit, and busy throughout the dream.) I’m at the register. The total is twelve something. I don’t have cash on me. I decide to pay with my debit card. I do so without a problem.

I’m back in the store again, at the register, paying for my purchase. It’s later in the day but still bright and sunny outside. I decide to use my debit card. I struggle to use the card right. Then I struggle with the PIN. Impatience wells up in the shoppers behind me, rushing out of them as agitated comments. “I don’t understand,” I say. “I just used it this morning and it worked fine.” I finally pay, grab my bag, and go.

I’m driving into a parking space in front of the grocery store. Sunlight flashes off the car’s windshield. It’s a light blue convertible, but I don’t know other details. I enter the store to shop, then I’m in line to pay. The total is fourteen something. I don’t have the cash for it. I debate between using my debit card and my credit card. I use the debit card. It doesn’t work, exasperating me. I go to the credit card. I slide the wrong side through, and then slide the right side, but then realize my card has a chip and the terminal has a chip reader. I pop the card in but can’t remember my PIN for it. I can’t believe I’m having such trouble remembering my PINs.

I’ve not noticed the cashiers before. They’ve never said or done anything as I went through my paying problems. But now, a manager comes over, big, white, middle-aged guy, short-sleeved mustard-yellow shirt, black tie, small mustache. He comes to the terminal and does something to override it and process the card. Then he says, “You know what you need to do?”

“No,” I reply, “what?”

But he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to someone behind me. I turn to see them. The dream ends.

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Stealing Batteries Deam

I’d dream I was back with folks from my military time — my final assignment, actually — but we weren’t in the military. I’d started a new job and was pleased and happy. The bosses and co-workers all seemed to take a shine to me. Things were going well. Then (you knew it was coming), one co-worker asked me to put something into an envelope for him and stamp it secret. He gave me the something, adding as he walked away, “I need to take it with me when I leave, so if you could hurry it up.”

I was eager to please, so I set right about taking care of it. Putting something in an envelope and marking it…no prob!

But, the something was a package of batteries. Eight of them. They were about C sized. Each was bundled to function as two.

Confusion struck. I was fetching an envelope but was asking myself, what’s going on? Why am I doing this? I remembered that he wanted to stamp this secret. Secret? Why?

As I cottoned to what was up — he was stealing these batteries — the bosses came around. One was a short female who I once worked for. She was just chattering away with a big smile. I was nodding and smiling back while hiding the batteries as I saw the requesting co-worker give me an anxious look over her shoulder.

Time was running out. The boss wanted something else done. “Okay,” I agreed, “but I need to finish this first.”

She wanted to know what I was doing but then veered off to another work area. I hurried to put the batteries into the envelope, seal it, and stamp it. The first thing was done but then another supervisor, a guy I worked with at a start-up after retiring, came by to see what I was doing. I hid the envelope and chatted away as the operation around me began to close up for the day. I needed to hurry. I wanted to help this guy because he’d come to me, and I didn’t want to disappoint him, even if I did wonder, was it worth it? Why was he stealing batteries? How much did batteries cost?

Then, though, I gave up. Instead, I found myself in the kitchen. Most of the others were already gone. Dishes with half-eaten food on them were on the stainless steel sink counter. Another co-worker (also from my last assignment) said, “We need to clean this up.” So, we did. The last thing I remember was scrapping a half-eaten piece of pie from the plate into the trash and then turning to wash it in the sink as the water ran.

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Two Short Dreams

‘Nudder busy dream night. Two stayed strongest with me. One which I found funny involved my wife.

Before that happened, though, I needed to get my phlegm tested to see if I had the flu. The local lab couldn’t test me for circular, bureaucratic reasons. I knew of a lab, though. Just needed to take my phlegm to another lab. So, I spit into a small piece of plastic, folded that in half, and put it into a plastic bag. Then off I went!

The lab wasn’t amused. They were downright pissed. “We can’t test this! What’s wrong with you?”

Chagrinned, I returned to report my failure to get my flu results because my sample had dried up and become contaminated. The man in charge was angry. He’d just received the report from the lab and was chastising everyone there, demanding to know who was responsible. I immediately went to him and told him, “It was me and only me. I’m the one who did it, all on my own. Put all the blame on me.”

He started righteously chewing me out but as he did, I could tell that he was trying not to laugh. That made me start laughing. He finally gave up and we both started laughing. He told me that what I’d done was silly and not to do it again, and then we went on our ways.

My way took me and my wife into a car on the road. We were young, in our early twenties. Ahead of us, a pickup truck was stopped in our lane. Weirdly, thinking back on it, we were driving on the left side of the road. The steering wheel was in the right place, though. Anyway, a pale metallic green, second-gen Prius — you probably know the type, it’s the ubiquitous spaceship-looking version that I seem to encounter all over the place — crossed the double-yellow line, pulled out into the other lane and passed the pickup — on a hill, going into a curve. Not safe, was what my wife and I said. Much finger gesturing and shouting ensued by both parties involved ahead of us. The pickup immediately started after the Prius with my wife and I right behind them.

We all pulled into a busy, dusty parking lot. My wife and I hurried into a little cafeteria-like place. She rushed to the counter. Two younger blonde twin women were approaching the counter, gabbing as they went. My wife deftly managed to reach the counter first. Holding up a quarter, which the male cashier accepted, she said, “Lemonade, please.”

The cashier answered, “I need to serve these two women first. They were here before you.”

“Then I went my quarter back,” my wife snapped.

“One gently used quarter returned to its previous owner,” the cashier said with a smile. My wife stomped off.

She was angry. Going to a table, she spread out newspaper sections to read. But, too angry to read, she then marched off, leaving the paper there. The cashier came up as she was departing the table. Pointing at the sections, he began, “Could you please,” but she rushed off without looking at him. He then appeared very dejected and walked away.

Seeing this, I quietly went up, folded up the newspaper sections, and put the paper back into the basket.

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Saturday’s Theme Music

Supposedly, there’s a star heating the world out there beyond the misty rain veils, and we know that we’ve rotated around and we’re pointing at it because daylight has arrived. This all happened at about 7:14 AM in Ashland. However, I’d like a stronger sol presence. It’s expected to exert some influence. The temperature is now 41 degrees F but we expect it to reach ten degrees more before sol sneaks back out of sight at 7:23 PM. Call me Ishmael; no, call me dubious. Ishmael sounds better, though. As Dubious, I would undoubtedly process life being known as Doob. “Hey, where’s Doob today? Has anyone seen Doob?” It’d be a dubious honor.

Dreams again influenced my theme music selection. I was in a dream where I’m off stage, in the wings, watching a ceremony. I was envious of the recipient. I was like, “How does he do it? What do I need to do? Why can’t I succeed?” As I’m standing there, watching this guy receive accolades and adoration, music plays for him. It’s Roy Orbison with the 1989 song, “You Got It”. They were specifically playing this line for this guy:

Anything you want, you got it
Anything you need, you got it
Anything at all, you got it
Baby

h/t to Genius.com

In my dream, I was reacting, yes, anything he wants, he got it. Grrr.

Past the dream, I like the song. Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne wrote the song with Roy. The Jeff Lynne influence is heavy, especially in the bridging, but that works out. I don’t hear as much of Tom’s input. Fun to consider these three talented friends working together to write, develop, and record this song.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask, and get the vax. You know who you are.

Cheers

Update: clouds have broken up. Sunshine has crashed through. Come on, sunshine!

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The Survey Dream

I found myself out with a crowd of people on a sunny day at a county fair. Rides were going on as music played. People were laughing, eating, and drinking. My wife and friends were with me. As we perused the fairgrounds, a man accosted us. “Would we be willing to participate in a survey? It’s twenty-five questions long. We’ll go over results later. You’ll be rewarded with tokens for rides, a free dinner, and drinks in another part of the fair later in the day.” Well, young and interested in free food and drinks and ride tokens, we agreed. A large group of us were given the surveys to complete and pencils. The survey form was a narrow piece of paper which turned out to be a small booklet. As my wife and I worked on it, we rode the Ferris Wheel. Multi-tasking at its finest, right?

The ride stopped at the top. I was writing an essay in answer to one question when I dropped my survey. This upset me because I was almost done. I could see exactly where it was on the ground. I also saw the man who’d given us the survey. Calling to him, I explained that I had dropped my survey and pointed out where it was. Could he get it for me?

No problem. He made his way through the crowd and around the rides to where I pointed. By the time he reached it, too much paper had accumulated there for him to find it. No problem. We finished our ride. When we reached the ground, I asked him and requested another survey. Well, he shouldn’t…but he did. I began working feverishly on finishing it in time.

Meanwhile, we’d moved toward the place where we would go over the results and get our free meal and drinks. The meal was a barbecue and I could smell it while the site was like an old television western set with picnic tables in a corral alongside a bunk house

Damn if I didn’t again lose my survey. This time, the wind took it into the corral. A split rail fence kept me from going after it immediately as the wind pushed it across dusty grounds. The survey man was with me when it happened. Laughing, I explained what’d happened and requested another survey. He was against this. Although he appreciated my enthusiasm, he was concerned that my answers would no longer be in the spirit of the survey because I was answering them so many times. I disagreed with his observation. That’s where the dream ended.

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A Dream of Losing Things

Honestly, it disturbed. A resolution that satisfied me never emerged, and I’m uncomfortable with what I seem to be telling myself.

I began by losing my direction. Nominally happy, I was in one place and needed to go to another. A sprawling, multi-leveled place, it was well-populated by like travelers going from one place to another. The site seemed to be a mixed-use center for business, retail, and residences, but it was huge, about the size of my small town (six square miles), and at least five levels, perhaps more, and busy. While going outside to go from one area/level to another was possible, I mostly stayed within.

Leaving one place, I was hurrying along. But where was I going? I thought I knew but then thought, oh, shouldn’t I be going the other way? Retracing my steps didn’t work; apparently I took a wrong time. Now I didn’t know where I was to go. Others were there and talking to them gave me some clues. But, just as I was getting underway, I inexplicably took off one of my shoes. Chocolate brown suede, I dropped one shoe, gasping with disappointment as it went straight down a square cutout and down several levels. Before I could continue on, I’d need to descend to retrieve my shoe.

All kinds of problems entered my mind about this, like, how was I going to go down at least two levels and find the shoe? What if someone took it away before I reached it? I tried shouting down for others’ attention, thinking someone might be able to throw my shoe back up to me. No one responded. With a rueful grin, I accepted that I’d need to find my way down there.

Meanwhile, I removed my other shoe, thinking it’d be more comfortable to be walking in my socks rather than with one shoe. So, carrying my remaining brown suede shoe, I searched for the nearest steps, elevator, whatever, down. As I went, I lost my other shoe. Now panicked, other worries struck. Did I have my laptop? I think I left my laptop behind. Panic exploding, I started checking my cases. I had two over my shoulders, one gray and one black. Both were laptop cases; no laptop in either. I was carrying empty cases.

Rushing back to my origins, I hunted the room where I’d been, hoping that I’d left my laptop there. I was somehow turned around, though, and ended up lost in somewhere entirely new. Finding a map and talking to people, I learned that I was far from where I’d begun and had little idea how to get back to where I was. Retracing my steps would be ideal but I was clueless.

There it was: I’d lost my shoes, my laptop, and my way. I was in a place where I didn’t know with little idea of where to go.

Classic anxiety dream.

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A Coffee Shop Dream

A pleasant and sunny day had emerged. In shorts, I was out walking through some thin woods and arrived at a stone and wood building I knew. Pausing on some steps, I cleaned off my shoes. Cat hair was just coating them. As another couple — strangers — passed, I briefly attempted to explain to them that I was cleaning cat hair off my shoes — but why would it matter to them? Stopping, sitting down, I removed my shoes to better clean them. At last, I continued, in socks, shoes in hand, up into the building.

This was a cozy book store-coffee shop combo. I visited the book store section first. A white male with glasses was behind the counter. I told him I was looking for fiction books. He asked for more details. I then asked, “Do you have a McCall’s? It lists every fiction book ever written.” He went off in search of, then returned with a red book with white lettering.

I moved to the coffee shop. It was a tight place — large counter dominating one corner, a waste can and several small, round tables taking up the rest of maybe a twelve by twelve foot space — and busy. I took a tall chair between two male customers at the counter. The woman behind me was a pale, slender redhead. She said, “Everyone was here dancing last night, Michael. You should have come. You would’ve had a good time.”

I thought I recognized her. She knew me but I didn’t know her name. Stalling, I replied, “Who was everyone?” She began reciting names as I wondered what her name was. Then a large man threw the remains of a scone and hit me in the chest. He began a string of earnest apologies. I realized that he’d been trying to get the scone into the trash can behind me but it was so tight and crowded, he’d instead hit me. It bothered me not at all. I took the scone and turn to put it into the trash.

I struggled. The trash can was carved out of a thick and twisted tree trunk. Two holes were there. An upper one was for recycle and the lower was for the waste. I figured this out along with other people who were attempting to use the trash. We all talked it through out loud. Then, scone dropped in trash, the dream ended.

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The Thirteenth Killer Dream

Although the dream title may sound threatening, this was a ‘fun’ dream. I returned again to ‘episodic’ format for dreams last night. That’s the expression I use when the dream is more like a television or movie experience. Although I still starred, action went on before other cameras, where I wasn’t in those scenes.

Overview: We were in a sunny, urban area that reminded me of the Silicon Valley-SF Bay. I was a reporter, chasing a story about a serial killer. My team and I had gone down the highway to investigate some details on a recent murder. After gathering clues, we headed back up an Interstate to work other angles. The highway was white concrete with the standard markers dividing it into four lanes. Ahead was a road block. The police were stopping everyone and asking for identification.

Back in another dream segment, two reporters, both male, had noticed that the 13th of the upcoming month had significance in the string of murders. Talking about it, the two reporters agreed to meet on that day.

Back on the highway, my car windows were down. The wind was blowing papers around. I was in a rental car, trying to find my rental agreement and identification. A state trooper approached my car. I stopped my car and offered him papers. They weren’t what he was looking for. The traffic had moved ahead. He told me to pull forward to the end of the traffic and stop again. I did as told, still looking for my identification while he stood at the window, waiting. He waved other cars around me as I continued dumping papers out of my briefcase and going through the center console, pockets, and the glove box, looking for identification, talking to the officer as I did this, telling him who I was and where I was going. He was responding that he didn’t care, he just wanted my identification.

Two cars passing me had my co-workers in them. Slowing, windows down, they called out, wanting to know if I was okay. I called back to them that I was as the trooper ordered them to go on.

Over in the other story line, we — the viewers — realized that one reporter was the serial killer. Investigating himself was a front to learn information from the police and other reporters, and throw us all off. The second reporter, apparently unaware of this, was making ready to meet the killer.

I finally found my identification and presented it to the officer. As he looked it over and we spoke, I had an epiphany and realized that a reporter could be the serial killer. That surprised and concerned me so much that I simultaneously pulled out my cell to call one of my team to talk to them while also starting to drive away. Both caused an irritated reaction by the trooper. Accusing me of trying to flee, he stepped back, put a hand on his gun, and ordered me out of my car. As I tried convincing him that I’d made an innocent mistake, apologizing profusely all the while, the screen split and we witnessed the serial killer stalking the other reporter. I realized the case had a supernatural element to it. The significance of the thirteenth was that he was the thirteenth killer; he’d been inhabiting other bodies. I wanted to chase that aspect.

The dream ended.

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A Magenta Blanket Dream

Wave upon wave of dreams crashed upon my dream psyche last night. They left a lot to unpack. However, I’m only mentioning the final dream here.

I got out of bed and began making it. As I was halfway through, I discovered a large, magenta blanket on the bed. Holding onto it, I thought, wow, that is soft but where did it come from? I looked around; I’d never seen the blanket before. Chuckling with amusement, I decided I’d throw it on top of the duvet as a final cover. When I did, it spread out and smoothly covered the entire bed. I reacted, “Cool,” and then looked around, a smile on my face.

Dream end.

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