Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
A rough night culminated in late slumber that ended with a dream and music.
I’ve posted “Highway Star'” by Deep Purple here before, but it was in my dream, so I thought I’d stay with it. It was the live version from their Made in Japan album, 1972. I had that album and used to listen to it at ear-bleeding levels. It’s a damn intense, unrelenting song, an eruption of unapologetic rock, almost to such levels that it’s parody.
Here it is, the looonnng live version, fresh from ’72.
No whips of any kind were in this dream, except the brutal emotional ones most of us employ on ourselves. This was a classic mélange of frustration and anxiety.
It began as a military dream. Whether this is true, I remembering being partially awake and telling myself, “Not another military dream.”
Then I wasn’t in a military dream. I was instead outside, with others. We were all all students and were scheduled to give an all-important final presentation. We’d already done one. Using feedback, we were supposed to go back and improve it.
But here I was, not at all fucking ready. It was time to go and I wasn’t dressed. I hadn’t changed my presentation, either.
I told myself, I can do this! Others began leaving for class. One reminded me that I needed to be there on time. The doors would close and lock at eight. If I wasn’t there, I would be failed.
Sure, I wasn’t worried.
Knowing that I needed to change clothes and my presentation, I went in the opposite direction of everyone else. What was I going to wear? How was I going to change the presentation.
I didn’t have answers. Time was running out. I decided, I’d wear what I had on – a red sweater with black pants – even though I’d worn those yesterday. And, by not changing clothes, I could make changes to the presentation.
Time was running out, and I’d wasted so much of it. I rushed toward class.
A bell was ringing.
I wasn’t going to make it.
I partially awoke. Thinking of the dream, I decided, I can change the outcome. Go back, dream again, and change the outcome.
I’m usually not bad at doing this. Today was a failure.
I went back. Time was running out. I would take a short-cut to get to the room. Rushing down a long flight of stairs, I came to another hallway.
It ended.
It was the wrong hallway. I couldn’t reach my class room from there.
A student and a security guard were sitting there, talking about another, but the details reflected my own situation. The student asked, “What if they’re late?”
The guard replied, “It doesn’t matter. I close the doors and lock them.”
“But what if they’re really trying?”
“Doesn’t matter. The doors are locked, and they fail.”
I started back up the hall to head for my class room. I found myself there.
The door wasn’t locked. I opened it and entered.
Everyone looked at me. The teachers (two) looked at me. A classmate said, “You’re in the same clothes. You didn’t change.”
The dream ended.
My dreams remain plentiful and involved. Sometimes, it feels like my brain is switching channels between realities as I sleep.
In this segment, I’d arrived to conduct an inspection. Three gentlemen in sites, all white, but of different ages, met me.
They knew why I was there. The oldest, with receding, thick white hair said, “We’ve been expecting you.”
“Do you have what I want?” I asked.
“Yes, but we must find it.” He nodded to the youngest man. “Go tell the others he’s arrived.” After going up white steps, the young man entered a tall, narrow building.
We followed him. The oldest man said, “It’s in one of the safes. We don’t know which one.”
We were walking down a narrow hall. I asked, “How many are there?”
“Twenty-three.”
I’d not expected so many safes. The oldest man nodded at the other. “Open number six.”
The other turned and opened a door, revealing a silver vault door within with a silver combination dial in the center. Stepping forward, the man put his hand on the dial.
The dream ended.
Weighing dreams on the scales. There was another flying dream, brief but intense. I wore goggles in this one. The wind tore at my face. An insect flew into my mouth.
My sputtering and spitting marked the end to the flying portion. In a dream picosecond, I’m in the military somewhere, temporary duty somewhere, finishing up. A woman, a major is present. She came in for the same conference. I talk to her about sharing a ride to the airport. Plans and agreements are made.
Time skips ahead. It’s later than I thought. I need to rush. I haven’t packed! I need to check out, too. The airport is ninety miles away. No, it’s ninety minutes away.
I need to hurry.
I’m racing, explaining to the front desk, I order a ride and tell them where to meet me. Hurrying to the room, I shower and change clothes. Shoes! Where are they? Oh, I’ve packed them. Where’s my thing, where‘s my toilet kit?
Anxiety ratchets up.
I see a car, a silvery blue sedan, like a Buick. A woman is driving. My ride, I think. I wave at her. She parks and leaves her car. I shout over, “I need more time, I’m almost ready.”
She walks over and starts following me. I’m talking to her, babbling. We’re at once outside and in the room. I finally find my toilet kit — I’ve already packed it. Damn it, where’s my head?
And the woman says, “I’m not your ride. I’m your replacement. How was your visit?”
In morning’s warm light, it all makes sense. The military was a comfortable space. Not very challenging, and straightforward. Structured, with few surprises, and a lot of positive feedback.
Now I’m out on my own, flying on my writing words but so damned dismayed. Is it smart enough, original enough, good enough?
Where is my toilet kit?
I know. Standard writer qualms. Standard human qualms.
Standard life qualms.
See ya.
Found myself wealthy with dreams last night. This was my favorite.
I’d left the military and I’d change clothes, twice. We were in a busy olace, an amalgam of city, countryside, stores, restaurants, and airport. It changed with where I ooked. That seemed right.
Now I was running late. Friends (K and W) and wife (B) accompanied me, and waited. I told them, “I need to take care of some of my change. There’s so much, I want to deal with some now.”
They mildly complained but I laughed them off and went to my car. Hard-edged and shiny, it was bright lime green wedge, exotic, expensive, and new. Yet my things were in it.
Young, energized, feeling liberated, I opened a panel up, revealing a long, light gray tray. Normally hidden from view, it went half the car’s length. Phones, electronic gear, clothing, paper money, and silver coins were in this tray. I couldn’t reach them because it’d all slid to the back, facts pointed out (with a laugh) by K, W, and B.
I replied, “Watch.” Jiggling the car caused the stuff to shift forward, letting me grab it. “There’s so much change,” I said, laughing. The others asked me what was funny but I didn’t explain. I put handfuls of change in my pocket to use, and then took some clothes to put on, and took a blender and a phone and put them into other parts of the car.
Traffic was heavy. We needed to go. After putting sunglasses on, we took off. The trip was short and fast. I swear that lime green car was flying.
After parking it and exiting, a dream about shopping began
The night was lively with energetic, positive dreams. When dreams like these take place, I hope and wish that they’re prophetic. Although I’m an optimist, I believe they’re overflow from my attitude, not the future.
My attitude does fluctuate. I can swing from hopeful to despairing faster than a hummingbird’s heartbeat.
At least one dream featured background music as U2’s “Red Hill Mining Town” was played. A few stanzas were prominent:
We’re wounded by fear
Injured in doubt.
I can lose myself
You I can’t live without.
Yeah, you keep me holdin’ on
In Red Hill Town.
See the lights go down onÖ
Hangin’ on
You’re all that’s left to hold on to.
I’m still waiting
I’m hangin’ on
You’re all that’s left to hold on to
On to.
h/t to Metrolyrics.com
BTW, did anyone else’s WP give you a change — an improvement, they’ll probably tell you — changing your block editor? Gotta fix it again, not difficult, but annoying. Don’t need another cause for teeth gnashing, thanks.
Here’s the music, from 1991. Not fond of this video. Hadn’t seen it before today, but it leaves me cringing with its sense of studied drama.
I was progressing through checkpoints…using four fake identifications.
To make them work, I was stacking the IDs on…automobile engines.
Each ID was a gray rectangular box, I’d guess 4″ (l) by 3″ 
by 2″ high. Going along a line of cars, I’d open the car hoods and mix the four fake ones among the genuine ones in the cars, often putting it on top or second from the top. One car said, “Warning, your stack is too high.”
I went about lowering that stack. Some ‘real’ IDs crumbled. The stack become unstable, like a game of Jenga. I managed to balance them.
While I was going through this, a uniformed officer came by and asked for ID. I gave him one of the fake ones. After looking at it, he handed it to me and thanked me, using the name on the ID.
I replied, “Who?”
The officer said, “That’s the name on the ID.”
Laughing, I answered, “If you say so.”
Giving me a look, he turned away.
I didn’t care. I was busy stacking IDs.
What a fun dream it was.
Seven factored in last night’s featured dream.
My wife and I were at the cost. Staying in a hut on stilts, we were on a low porch where active waves crashed, sprayed, and tumbled around us. Others were in like huts. We were enjoying ourselves.
Seven green WWII era Army Jeeps roared off the beach into the rambunctious water. As I called out to my wife to look, I counted the vehicles. The Jeep drivers reversed the vehicles and went back through the waves onto the beach. I was full of admiration. “That’s how real Jeeps are driven.”
Looking out into the water, I saw seven seals in the waves coming toward the shore. Laughing and pointing, I called to my wife to look. “Look at these seals. There’s seven of them.” As the seals went under water, seven dolphins jumped out of the water over the waves, which I called out to my wife to see.
We then decided to go up on land. Leaving our hut’s porch, we went into the water. Warm, it came up to our knees. Going left, we waded around our hut and up the beach between huts. Looking down, I saw that our neighbors had caught seven silver fish. Pointing them out to my wife, I said, that’s what we need to do.”
Dreamed last night the people were calling me Einstein. This was done to mock me. That pissed me off.
I’d arrived at a large building. Laid out with several floors and many rooms, clutter made moving difficult, and people milling about worsened it.
Walking about, the mess irritated me. Without talking to anyone, I began deciding where things should go and moved stuff around. Noticing, others began picking things up and asking me where to put it.
Soon, everyone was helping. I directed that others create lists of where things went, and put those on the walls. Then I had similar lists made up that told each room’s contents.
Momentum created, things were running themselves when two men approached. The taller of the two said to the other, “This is the Einstein that changed everything, so ask him if you have any questions.”
His snide tone stirred WTF in me. “I’m not Einstein, I’m not smart, I just organized things.”
But the guy kept talking, calling me Einstein.
Miffed, I ignored him and continued with what I was doing. My wife and her niece arrived. I decided to declare some space as ours, and eventually came up with a large suite of empty rooms. After hustling people out and closing the doors, the three of us walked around. As I did, I warmed to the realization that I had ended up with a huge and desirable space with lots of windows and incredible views. I pointed that out to the others.
Agreeing, they shared my excitement, which is where the dream ended.
I’m a young boy climbing a slippery dark green hill in the dream. It seems like it’s late in the day.
I’m muddy and grass stained. I hold onto tufts of grass to pull myself forward. The grass breaks again and again. I fall backwards and slide, but catch myself. I’m making progress, but it’s slow, wearying, and tedious.
A shadow passes over me. Engrossed with my climbing, I notice it but don’t look up. When it passes me again, I think, bird. When the shadow goes over me a third time, it seems slower and larger, so I look up.
It’s a man with wings.
My first thought is, “Angel.” He’s grubby and bearded, though, with dirty hair and torn clothing. I decide, “That’s not an angel.”
Wings beating the air, he hovers above me. I think, he shouldn’t be able to do that. His wings aren’t beating fast enough. I wonder if wires hold him up.
He says, “Do you have the map?”
I don’t know what he’s talking about.
He says, “The map. You’re supposed to have the map.” He’s speaking slow and loud. “Do you have it?”
I shake my head. I want to continue climbing the hill.
After watching me some time in a way that makes me itch, he flies away. I resume climbing. Then, thinking, the map, I stop and begin searching my clothes for the map. I recall, yes, I’m supposed to have a map. I remember the flying man and realize that I’m no longer a little boy. I want to turn and look down the hill. The hill seems like a mountain now. I don’t look back because I think I’m still back there, climbing as a little boy. I don’t want to see that.
I search the sky instead, looking for the flying man, trying to catch a glimpse of his shadow.
I think, was I the flying man?
He could’ve looked like me.
Or I looked like him.
Michael Seidel, writer 