Tag: Dream

A Dream Series

I would dream, awaken, and think, and then return to the dream. The dream series had so much detail, it was like immersive virtual reality. To capture it all would require hours of thinking and writing, so I give this sparse version.

The dream sequence began with me as an adult being invited into a special program. In the dream, I had the ability to see patterns and intuitively meld data, at times doing so as fast as people say, “Hello.” I can’t claim to understand the talent completely; it permitted me to almost instantly know people’s name and history. People were in awe of it.

The special program was an experiment in three phases. First, an operation. Second, a test of complex data to evaluate results. Third, to let me out and see what happens.

The place was an old medical office building now used as a school. The halls were tall, crowded and narrow. There were many small rooms, and the sheer density of teachers and students created havoc trying to get around. I arrived looking slovenly, joking with them, pleased to be invited, and not at all intimidated. There had been one person like me who’d gone through the program. His name was Carrie. He’d done it decades before, before anyone was even sure what he was.

Put into a small, crowded bedroom also used as an office, I demonstrated my initial skills. The project members were amazed. I’d been through this before with others. People were always dubious of my skills and wanted demonstrations. They thought the data and situation was extremely complex but it was amazingly simple to me. My time for going through it was less than a few seconds. It was slow by my standards. I bragged that to them.

We agreed to go through with the operation.

The operation seemed to involve crunching down on my thumb nail hard with something that looked like a wired hole-punch. Two tall white guys, young and casually dressed, did the operation. It went off as specified but the results afterward weren’t overly impressive. Yes, I had an improvement in my ability to intuitively gather and analyze data, but the scale didn’t increase as much as we’d expected. I was disappointed, and so were the program administrators.

Another thumb punch was proposed and accepted. They found another place on my thumb nail and punched.

I felt stunned, both connected to the world and released to be outside of it. I could see the data in a way I never had, but I was exhausted and in pain. Bent over, holding my thumb, I crashed to the floor.

I awoke in the same room, but in a white hospital gown. I remained desperately enervated and in pain. I wanted to sleep. They told me that I’d been working in my sleep. They were amazed. I had no knowledge of it. I wanted to sleep  more.

I also wanted to know what was different about the second operation from the first. It had seemed exactly the same, only administered in a different location. The two male ‘operators’ wanted to talk about it, and began by explaining that they’d probably just found a sweet spot, but the administrators didn’t want them disturbing me. Everyone was whisked out of my room.

I slept again, but then, half-awake, felt the need to leave the room. No logic supported my desire. I just needed to go. The door was partway open; I went through. On the other side were the administrators and operators, along with other people. They argued about whether I should be let out, but decided that if that’s what I wanted to do, they shouldn’t stop me.

I left. My thumb ached. I held it out to one side and coped with its pain.

The rooms and halls were packed with children. Male and female were there. Most were between eight and thirteen years old. None were poor but all seemed dressed in a style I associate with middle-class America. White children dominated but there was a wide variety of ethnicities present.

The children didn’t know who I was, but they thought I was the guy, the special guest. They were too awed of me to speak with me. They became silent wherever I went, watching me as I went by them, through rooms, and up and down steps and halls. I noticed one child because he seemed different. Black, he had a narrow face, a tall, poofy afro, and wide solemn eyes. I saw him several more times, and sought reasons for why I was seeing him so frequently. Others spoke about him by name. I engaged in the conversation, and then decided to look for him.

I began walking around again. I was often noticed because I remained in my white hospital gowns. I didn’t like that, so I stopped off and changed clothing into my usual style. Then I resumed roaming.

Bulletin boards filled with photographs were on some hall walls. I stopped to look at them sometimes. The boards had hundreds of photographs of individuals and groups. Nothing was labeled but looking at the photos, I knew who people were.

One board had a small black and white photograph of the great Carrie. He wore a straw hat and appeared to be in an Hawaiian shirt. There were several photographs of me when I was younger. I didn’t know where they’d gotten them.

I kept roaming the building through crowds of students and rooms of teachers. Picking up data, I realized the projects full scope was to analyze the group patterns and assess and predict who would be successful. I knew I could do this. The more I walked, the more I learned. As I learned, I realized the children and teachers were arranged in a pattern.

Squatting against a wall, I paused to rest and think. This crowd of children weren’t sure of who I was. They mostly ignored me. But then an administrator entered. She walked around with internal mail. Calling my name, she passed me a thin folder. “Nine comments,” she said. “Impressive.”

I studied the comments. They were complimentary but not helpful. I resumed walking around. I thought about the black kid again.

I entered a room. Children were lying on the floor on their backs. I stood by the entrance, looking at them. One boy beside me kicked me in the leg.

I was furious. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him to his feet, asking the others who he was. He was unapologetic, unafraid and indifferent to me. He wouldn’t talk.

Ten years old, he was white, slender with a thick bush of black hair and dark eyes. He wore blue jeans and a sweater. I wanted to know his name, demanding it off of the other children present. I was angry that he’d kicked me, but there was more.

I couldn’t get anything off him.

He was outside the data. That was how I’d begun, I realized, as a person outside of the norms.

The dreams ended.

 

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Nesting Dreams

I dreamed my mother was sitting at a table and telling me of her dream, in which I was telling her of my dream, in which I dreamed she was saying, “Michael is gathering his energy and purging his disciplines.”

Don’t know what it means, but I dreamed it before. I recall thinking, what an unusual nesting dream. What are the Russian dolls called? Matryoshka dolls?

That stream triggered a search of old dreams, and there it was, December 7, 2016. I didn’t share the bit about Mom in the post, but posting about other dreams (which used the title “Matryoshka Dreams”) enabled me to do a search of my dream entries, where I found it.

I dreamed Mom and I were sitting at a table. She was telling me about her dream, which was a dream about me telling her about my dream. In my dream, she said, I told her, “Michael is gathering his energy and purging his disciplines.”

I don’t know what she/I meant about ‘purging my disciplines’. That doesn’t make sense to me.

I don’t know what Mom was wearing in that first dream, but in this dream, she wore a light blue shirt and was thirty years younger. She was the only person seen or heard in the dream, but I knew she was talking to me.

After I meditated about the dream’s meaning while traveling, I decided this was about thinking deeper and drawing deeper energy. It’s an intuitive leap. I can’t explain the intuition, except that it’s because the dream is about layers, and about both male and female energy, and mother and son energy. Now, writing that, I think, it’s also about balancing deep thinking and drawing deeper energy. Purging disciplines is about re-shaping paradigms vis–à–vis effort and expectations.

Or maybe I’m just tired.

 

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The Control Dreams

Little late posting about this, as I dreamed it on winter solstice. 

It was a simple dream. I was driving one of three vehicles. Other people were driving the other vehicles. One vehicle controlled the others. I wasn’t in that vehicle, so I lacked control. But I wanted it. Lack of experience with the vehicle and ignorance about what was transpiring hampered me.

The cars were impressive. Closed cockpit, but definitely road cars, they were extremely low, powerful, silent and fast. They were also identical. I knew the other two drivers in the dream as people from earlier years of life.

We took off driving. I was third in line. In an interesting twist (maybe interesting only to me), I went from a close, over the shoulder point-of-view in which I saw myself, my controls and the road ahead, to a long, wide shot that featured the three sleek, silver vehicles silently racing along an elevated white highway.

Back in the car’s cockpit, I decided I wanted control. So I took it with by flicking a switch. Now I was the one driving as the other two chaffed about me taking control. But I had it and didn’t relinquish it, and they accepted that after their brief complaints.

That’s essentially the dream, but subsequent activity was interesting. First, I awoke on the day after solstice feeling like a tremendous weight on been removed. I felt lighter, stronger, and more energetic and optimistic.

Two, among several dreams was a repeat of this dream a few nights later. It went almost exactly the same way.

I thought it a good omen for a new year, but then, I’m an optimist. Have a good day.

Cheers

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The Superhero Dream

Dreamed I was a superhero, and had special powers. I could loco-levitate, rising up off the ground to about twenty feet, and propelling myself forward to over one hundred miles per hour almost instantaneously. I could only levitate for a short period, and propel myself for three or four miles.

But that was a side dish. My primary power was the ability to make things cease to be there, like buildings. I always ensured I employed my power cautiously, unwilling to hurt innocents and bystanders. I’d usually just create a hole in the side of a building. I could then put it back into place.

In the dream, though, I was being chased, and was out of my red outfit. It was late evening, in a large metropolitan area. I don’t know who chased me, but they were persistent and organized. I developed increasingly desperate and clever ways to employ my powers.

I was spotted by others, of course. One teen-age girl was thrilled to encounter me unmasked, and pointed it out to others. They became my boosters, cheering me on. My supporting nation grew as the chase continued. The cheering fans then involved themselves to slow down my pursuit, allowing me to escape past the city’s lights, and into the night.

Great fun.

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William Shatner and Seven

The dreams, the dreams.

A tsunami of eclectic dreams lifted me up and carried me out. The numeral “seven” dominated. I know of at three instances. I believe that I counted seven dreams, and seven appeared in two of them.

An argument ensued, and a rift opened between two groups. I knew them all. I thought it was bullshit, and stayed loyal to my friend. The rest were throwing a party. My friend was being ostracized and wouldn’t go. I went anyway, to make a point. The host asked me if I was still friends with the other guy. I said, “Yes.” “Then you’ll need to pay seven dollars for a beer.”

Fine. WTF? went through my mind. Was that supposed to intimidate me?

I left the house through a back door, just to get fresh air. A Saint Bernard was there. He wanted out. I knew he wasn’t supposed to get out, but he got out when I opened the door. He ran around a moment, and then I said, “Get back into the house,” which he did. I returned to the party and went to the hostess. I had not finished my beer, but I wasn’t staying. I gave her the seven dollars and said, “Give this to your husband.” She didn’t understand and didn’t want to accept it. “Just give it to him,” I said. “Tell him it’s from me. He’ll understand.”

Seven appeared again later:

I’d been waiting with my friend to take a course. He remained ostracized. People avoided our table, and our so-called friends were rude to us. The instructor, noticing this, told my friend and I, “Pay me seven dollars. You’ve finished the course.”

“No, we haven’t taken it yet. We’re waiting to take it.”

“No, you don’t need it. You’ve already taken it. Here’s your certificates. Just give me seven dollars.”

Okay.

It was interesting that I was receiving seven dollars, and then giving seven dollars, all under the umbrella of seven dreams.

In another dream vignette, I didn’t like how matters were transpiring. I was being interrogated and told to sign a loyalty statement. That made everyone afraid. I was afraid at that point, but then asked, “Why should I be afraid? I will not.” So I endured, and signed. Everyone else told me that was a mistake. I said, “You’re thinking wrong about this. As long as they have you afraid to sign, they’ll control you. But because I’ve signed, I can never be controlled again.”

They did try to make me sign again, but I prevailed against them, twice, and felt damn good about it.

Then there was the scene where I was in someone else’s new house. It was very high-tech and expensive, with many windows, and even glass walls inside the house. Its layout bemused and amused me. I thought they were trying too hard. While walking through, I saw a wreath with a candle in a box. I’d seen this in portions of other dreams, sometimes in a box, but sometimes hanging on a door. I’d come to know that these were made and distributed by William Shatner.

Seeing this one, I pointed it out to my friend. I said, “They’re everywhere.” My friend said, “That William Shatner is an evil genius.” We laughed.

Out of all this, I awoke from dreaming and slipped into writing mode. I needed to write a chapter called “Circle,” I realized. “Circle” began acquiring substance as soon as the word was known.

So here I go, writing like crazy, at least one more time.

 

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The Tree Dream

Vignettes played as dreams last night, with each sharing the need for there to be a tree in it.

The first vignette centered around camping. I was with friends (none recognized). We were searching for a camp site. It might have been at Laguna Seca (Mazda Raceway). One of the guys suggested that I go ahead and find us a site. “Just make sure it has a tree.”

I went looking and saw plenty of trees, but none that seemed to fit the need. Alone, I began complaining to myself about why one of the others hadn’t come with me.

Another vignette began. I was with friends. We were there to play softball. “Find us a field with a tree,” one man told me.

“A tree?” I said. “Why would you want a softball field with a tree? Wouldn’t the tree interfere?”

He and others insisted we needed a tree. Exasperated, I agreed to find a field with a tree, and then a third vignette started.

I was with friends. We needed a hotel room. “Try to get us one with a tree,” a friend told me.

A hotel room with a tree? “Do they have those?” I said.

“Yes, I’m sure they do. Just ask.”

They went off, leaving me alone. After looking around, I spotted the front desk and went over. “I need a room with a tree,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” came the answer.

Without further issue, I entered a room. Huge, it was carpeted, with windows. And against one pale wall, grew a large tree.

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Mining Dream

I dreamed, working alone, I was mining. I didn’t see what I was mining, but I was extracting something in a well-lit, pleasant environment, and I knew it was worth a fortune. It was a positive and powerful experience.

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The Sisters Dream

I dreamed of my sisters, sisters-in-law, and their daughters. My wife was also present, but ‘off-stage’, in the other room. Sometimes I heard her, but I never saw her. Only one male was in it; he didn’t enter until the end.

I was in someone’s house. I don’t know whose house. Toward the dream’s beginning, one sister-in-law entered. She and I hugged. She said, “How long until December?”

There was a calendar on the wall beside us. Indicating it, I said, “You’re behind. It’s already December. It’s almost the middle of December.”

She and I joined the others by a coffee table. Everyone was happy to see me, and I was happy to see them, but I knew it was a dream, and I was trying to understand why they were there, and what was going on. Bowls of finger-food and plates of sandwiches filled the coffee table. My two youngest sisters were beside it. The youngest was talking and laughing with several nieces, while the next oldest sister talked to me about the food and asked me what I wanted. I saw my older sister and my other sister in another part of the room. Multiple overlapping conversations were taking place, and there was a lot of laughter. I couldn’t hear much of what was being said. My sister-in-law sat close to me, trying to talk to me, but my sister was also talking to me, leaving me unable to answer either.

Taking a break from them, I went into another room. My Dad was in there, doing business. I was trying to understand what his business was, and what was he doing. Although I asked these questions, I couldn’t comprehend his responses. Eventually, I went back into the other room to find something to eat.

Which is where memory of the dream fades.

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The Writing Dream

I was in a busy, well-lit place that seemed home and office. Dozens of others were present, including my wife. People ) were milling around, talking to one another, examining my possessions – for it’s then that I realized it was my place – and offering desultory comments on my writing and past efforts. One odd-looking man, heavy, with slick, black receding hair and a black mustache and goatee on a bullet-head thrust onto a stout neck, was most outspoken. He mocked my collection of past writing efforts, done in the initial years in lab notebooks, saying things such as, “What is this stuff? What is it?”

I tried ignoring him as my wife talked to me. I was sitting at my computer at a table. Her comments confused me. I sought clarification. She was trying to talk to me about another manuscript of mine, telling me, “No, that other one. You know the one I mean.”

Finally, I stood. Walking over to the odd-looking guy, I said, “Stop talking about  my fucking writing. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t say another fucking word.”

He stumbled off, red-faced and shocked.

End of dream.

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Prove It

The first thing he thought of, after recognizing where he was, and what he was doing, was the Rolling Stones song, “Get Off of My Cloud.” Not really correct. Does correctness have degrees? Sure, they give partial credit to partially correct answers. Yes, but not in this situation. So, he corrected, not correct. He wasn’t on a cloud. He was on a contrail, as he’d learned they were called, a chemtrail, as others called them in the second half of his life.

Poisonous air vapors, they were. Surrounded by blue sky, he was walking on them. As he didn’t know how he’d reached them (nor how he could be walking on them), he believed he was dreaming. How high was he? Well, very high. He’d read that commercial aircraft generally fly over thirty thousand feet in the U.S. He assumed he was in U.S. air space, although nothing supported that assumption.

Physically, then, he wasn’t doing this, couldn’t be doing this, unless it was a dream or virtual reality. There was no way he could otherwise be surviving so comfortably at such an altitude. At this altitude, if it’s over thirty thousand feet, he was higher than Mount Everest. The air would be too thin for normal breathing, he was breathing normally, he ascertained with tests. At that altitude, the temperature would be forty-nine degrees below zero, or worse. He wasn’t dressed for that kind of cold.

But here he was, in his Lee jeans, knit shirt, Nikes, and Columbia Wear fleece, striding along without issue. Which presented the idea that maybe these contrails were far lower than they should be. That was absurd, of course; that’s not how they worked. Nevertheless, he stopped walking, turned, and looked over the side.

Big, big mistake.

He’d been able to see mountain tops and distant horizons of clustered buildings and farmland when walking along. But now, looking down, he found a true sense of his altitude, and it freaked him out. He was so freaked out, he should awaken at any moment now.

He waited.

Nothing changed. He looked back and forth along his contrail. It stretched on for a long distance. He could do three things now. One, step off the contrail and see what happens. Two, follow the contrail and see if it led anywhere. Three, he could stand there and do nothing until the contrail faded away.

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