Tag: Dream

The Dream Brief

I had to face the bald facts.

That’s what I saw in one of my dreams last night.

In it, I was looking at myself in the mirror. There, I discovered that I was balding in an area that I’d not noticed before. Technically, it would have been a deeply receding hairline on the left side of my face.

“I didn’t notice that,” my dream self said, turning my head and examining my hairline.

To which my awareness said, “You need to look in a new direction because you’re missing something that’s going on.”

Isn’t that the way it often is? You’re used to doing something in a fixed way. It becomes rote habit, conducted without thought. They can stale on you, but you can’t see it, because you’re always looking at it the same way.

And by you, I mean, me.

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General Dream

“This is General Hamilton.”

Sure, I believed that. I was in the military again in this dream. My cell phone had rung. I’d answered. The other end had asked for Sergeant Seidel. I told them that was me. That’s when they identified themself.

Their voice was a pleasant tenor. Yeah, right, I thought, hearing that, and disconnected. I didn’t know a General Hamilton, and why would he be calling me? I was in the middle of some large, busy military complex. It was indoors and very modern. Everyone was in U.S. Air Force uniforms. I believe the location was in Florida.

I told someone else that a person had called and said they were General Hamilton. I didn’t know who that was. “It’s the commander,” they replied. “A five-star.”

A five-star? Seriously, a five-star calling me on my cell phone? Right.

The cell phone rang again. I answered. “This is General Hamilton.”

I answered with who I was and explained that we must have been disconnected. I remained dubious about who I was talking to.

“No problem,” he answered. “How do I get to the hospital?”

Was this a joke? I looked around. A large base directory, like in a mall, was mounted to a wall. “Where are you, General?”

“I’m in my office.”

“Where’s that?”

He told me. I traced it on the map. He seemed like he was two minutes away by car. The conversation continued, with me trying to understand why he was calling me, what his question meant, and what sort of help he was looking for.

“You’re the one responsible for coordinating activities, aren’t you?” he said.

Yes, that was one of my duties. As I was talking, I was walking and looking around, assessing where I was, trying to think through the issue and looking for anyone or anything that might be of help. His question completely baffled me. A five-star doesn’t have problems getting from one part of the base to another.

He had to hang up. He promised to call me back in a few minutes. “Thank you, sir,” I answered, and starting moving and thinking with more focused purpose. I’d made my way to the area he was trying to reach as I’d been talking to him. I’d realized he was going there to attend a ceremony taking place. I further knew who the organizers were, so I was heading there to talk to them. Most of the walls were glass. Although security was tight and I was often challenged, my security passes allowed me complete access.

Reaching the location of the ceremony, I entered and looked around. Although in a glass building, rolling, lush green grass dominated. Birds were singing, and it was sunny, with a warm breeze.

I saw the officer I sought. She was just concluding a speech. I hurried toward her. As I did, two heavily-armed security officers stepped up to her. They started talking. Thinking they were about to give her some problems, I hastened to them, because I knew that although she outranked me, I had a special position, and I could intercede.

I arrived at the end of their conversation. They were telling her, “We just wanted you to know that your story moved us, and we’re here to help you in any way that we can. We’re all here to help you.”

The officer was wiping off tears and sniffing. “Thank you.”

The security officers nodded and left. I gathered that her speech had been a moving one about loss, and they’d been moved. I just had that as an insight as I looked at her.

I started adding my condolences but was aware that time was short. She cut me off anyway, complaining about being emotional. I then began explaining my issue. I struggled to get the words out. As I did, I inadvertently called General Hamilton, General Mood.

I was correcting myself when she replied, “I know who you mean. That’s a good name for him. He’s really particular about how he travels. He has a phobia. That’s why he’s asking you for help. He wants to come here but he wants to walk.”

The explanation stunned me but as soon as I heard her, I knew what to do. It was just in time. The cell phone rang. I answered.

“This is General Hamilton,” they said from the other end.

I identified myself, and then began explaining what he needed to do. In the course of that, I realized that I called him General Mood. I immediately heard the mistake, apologized and corrected myself. He laughed. “That’s not a problem.”

Others came up to the officer I’d been talking to. They were concerned that General Hamilton hadn’t arrived. “I’m on the phone with him,” I replied, which impressed everyone. Then, as I resumed explaining how he was to reach our part, I looked up and saw him arriving.

The end.

***

I’ve typed the dream out to remember it so I forget as little as possible. In remembering it, some clues about what it’s about spoke to me, but overall, I need time to process it.

4

John C. Long

I don’t know who John C. Long is. In my dream last night, he was a billionaire lost in the matrix in space. I knew he was trying to become a trillionaire.

I was in space, along with others. Long was missing. They said he was in the matrix. The matrix was a blue structure of connected triangles glowing against the galaxies, stars and ink well of the region. I could clearly see it; I’m not certain if others could.

I was dubious about going after Long and kept pressing the others to tell me why they wanted me to go into the matrix, find Long and bring him back.

That’s all the dream was about.

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Coffee Dreams

A mug of hot coffee warms my hands against the April’s winter shadow. I sit with my dreams and myself to think.

My dreams took a different turn last night. It feels like a turn for the better. Although multiple elements seen in past dreams, like being in class to learn and working with technology, were present, the dream most sharply recalled featured spilled coffee.

A thirty year old version of myself, I was at a huge room. I thought of it partly as a classroom but also as a work center. It was enormous, as large as say, an NBA basketball area. It was dark, with low task lights doing most of the illuminating. Rows of consoles with work stations filled it. Each work station feature a personal computer but also a link to a master computer. They also had television monitors, telephones, and CD/DVD players and burners. Most were unoccupied.

I’d never seen them before but now was working at one, or trying to make it work. I was holding a cup of coffee. The cup was plain, low and white with a handle. It seemed to be ceramic, nothing fancy. Coffee kept slopping out when I moved. I became aware of this and mildly frustrated. Most of my frustration was that I didn’t want to spill on the work station. Magically, the cup didn’t seem to actually lose much coffee between drinking and spilling from it.

A man and a woman who I didn’t know came up behind my station. They talked about me like I wasn’t present, yet were watching my work and commenting on it, with the woman, slender and white, with dark hair piled on her head, and dressed in a pale yellow and white gown, was telling the man, a white guy in shirt sleeves, khakis and glasses, that she was thinking of helping me. She noted how I made some of the same mistakes that she’d made. This prompted me to focus harder and think more carefully about what I was doing, which was typing. The keyboard was wrong, with the keys spaced awkwardly, even haphazardly, forcing me to struggle and repeat the typing.

When I spilled coffee for the third time, she commented on it, almost as a joke. I explained that I knew why I was spilling coffee, observing that the handle was too small for my fingers but didn’t extend enough for me to grip with more of my hand, so my grip was precarious and not balanced. The cup had a shallow draft in my opinion, with a wide mouth, and that’s why the coffee easily spilled out as I moved around. She seemed impressed with the explanation.

Walking across the work space, I came to where a teach sat with students. The teacher wasn’t anyone I know, but was young, white with dark hair in a bob. She was talking to the students in a chatty, happy voice. The other students were my age or a little younger. I was dismayed that they all seemed to be on a break. She was using the break as a teaching and bonding opportunity. I heard her say, “We all have work to do but you can work at your own pace.” I was happy working, because I had a problem and I wanted to solve it, so I decided to return to work.

But then I thought that I’d watch a movie. I had a DVD in hand. I don’t know what movie it was. I realized, though, that I could put the movie on at my station and watch it there, while I worked, so I turned to do that. When I did, I spilled coffee a fourth time.

That made me smile.

Awaking this morning and thinking about the dream, I felt empowered, invigorated and optimistic. I can’t say why. Was it the spilled coffee? I put a lot of faith in coffee to help me think, focus and work, but that was usually around preparing and drinking it, and not spilling it.

Coffee is associated with get up and go with me. Drinking coffee is part of my rituals for preparing to do multiple things, from writing, cleaning and yard work to washing the car and traveling. So the coffee in the dream is about entering a new stage of activity. The moments of sitting and taking a few sips of coffee is always the cusp of a new beginning for me, a signal to start. Spilling it was important because it didn’t matter to me or anyone else. The cup was limitless; more coffee was always there.

From all that, I decided, I’m ready to step up my pace of work and activity. I have the coffee, now let’s get to it.

0

A Laugher

One of last night’s dream makes me laugh whenever I think of it.

I was working. I can’t say the nature of the work. Seemed like I was conducting inventory. Whatever I was doing, I was busy, happy and fulfilled. A manager came by. He wasn’t someone I knew from my life but he was known by the dream me.

Dream manager told me they — the rest of the office or work place — were leaving. I was fine with that. While they were gone, they were expecting two people to arrive: Major Record and a garbled, unintelligible name.

Sure, got it. Understood.

The manager left and came back. Still waiting for Major Record and the other, whose name he screwed up. Although I can’t remember the other name, I corrected it in the dream for him.

A little later: Major Record arrived, along with X. X was another name. I asked about the original second name. That’s who arrived, was the reply. They came by another way. They’ll be coming this way.

The manager had continuously screwed up the second name until it became a joke. Meanwhile, the Major Record we’d been awaiting had already arrived.

Waking, I keep laughing about that. I’m waiting for Major Record, but he’s already arrived. And I just kept working, doing the same thing, the entire time.

0

Swinging Pendulum

Yesterday I awoke bitter, depressed, angry, and deeply enthralled with the dark side. Today, the pendulum has swung the other way. I’m optimistic, energetic, hopeful and happy.

I’m pleased this iteration of the dark period quickly ended. Perhaps the dream about cleaning, or the thinking about the dream, was a catalyst to regaining positive energy.

Something to think about.

2

The Note

I dreamed, of course, several dreams, but they’re broken today and heap in my head like pieces of broken glass.

One dream fragment is best remembered. It’s dim and busy with the red-black-amber noisy ambiance of a late night club. I’m handed a note. I don’t see who hands it to me but I thank them. The note is folded. My full name is typed in twelve pitch Times New Roman font in black on the front. I’m surprised, pleased, and giddy to be receiving this note. Unfolding it, I read my future history in typewritten paragraphs.

And that thrills me. I’m so excited. But now, I remember none of it. I only remember that I was handed a note with my name typed on it.

2

Future Projection

Rising to pee at six AM and see which feline is scratching at what door to go in which direction, I sail my thinking through the dreams still cascading through my consciousness.

Then I set them aside. Forget about them. They seemed like much of the same.

But later, reading other blogs, a flash of remembered dream scythes in.

I’ve been in a school. Walking through it. Looking for a shirt. Being watched and judged. 

I know I’m older than them. They’re looking at me for guidance. 

I try to ignore them. I keep going, meandering through the school’s white brick walls, up steps, and down halls, looking for a shirt until I discover that, here, in this classroom, that I just passed, to my left, is the locker holding my shirt. But a class is going on in the classroom. I don’t want to interrupt it.

Then I do interrupt it. I slip in along the wall. I’m immediately noticed. I apologize for my presence and the disturbance and explain that I need a shirt from my locker. It’s well received, politely received.

Then I’m back where I was. I still don’t have a shirt. I did not go into the classroom, I realize, but projected myself into a possible future to see what would happen if I accepted that path. Then I decided not to do that but to continue looking for a shirt elsewhere.

While looking, I come to another crossroads. I’m in the school. People are off to one side, talking. Noticing me, they begin talking about me.

I try to ignore them. I’m focusing on my objective to find the shirt. I have the choice of three directions. Looking into one direction, I project myself into the future. 

I’m surrounded by people. They seem smaller than me but they’re not children. They seem smaller because they’re all looking up at me. I’m speaking. I don’t know what I’m saying. They’re listening, nodding and smiling. 

Returning to the crossroads, I project myself into another future in a different direction. I’m again surrounded by people. Again, they’re looking up at me. I’m telling them my name and spelling it for them. They’re listening, smiling and nodding. Some of them are answering me, “Yes, that’s your name.”

That’s all that’s remembered right here and now. I’m sort of breathless with the idea that I projected myself into a future, even if in a dream, but I remember thinking in the dream, The things we can dream.

 

0

Today’s Theme Music

I thought something about dreams would be appropriate for me for theme music today.

There are a lot of offerings available. ‘Dream Weaver’, by Gary Wright, came to mind. How about The Chordettes with ‘Mr Sandman’?  Susan Boyle, ‘I Dreamed a Dream’, would fit. There are so many songs about dreaming and issues with dreams out there, but I decided upon Aerosmith, ‘Dream On’. 

As I write and think about dreams and dream music today, I think, there’s a novel there, about a man who becomes obsessed with understanding his dreams, and dreaming more and more frequently. It’s not the freshest feed for a story but it could be fun to explore.

2

Resigned

A dream’s undertow sucked me into its midst, where I was myself, in a younger guise, and dressed in Air Force blue. I, in my dream madness, completed paperwork in a dim crowded bunker of electronic scents. Watchful eyes ensured I filled the proper blocks with typewritten words in coherent order. But – they were dissatisfied.

A junior officer arrived to ‘help’ me redo the paperwork, explaining in cloying officialese that some of these statements weren’t appropriate and do I know that if I but groom myself a little more and co-operate, they’ll reward my potential with advancement.

But the flattery felt oily, and I resisted, asking, “Can’t I just line out the offending lines?” The Colonel came by to help me understand, asking the junior officer if it had been explained. Yes, the junior officer explained, it has been explained and he understands. “But,”I protested, “but, but, but…,” resisting because I was not inclined to re-type and rewrite, because those were not my words.

The Colonel showed me a note from the General,  where the General had sprawled in a fat red marker, ‘Does he understand that they can see this as treason?’ I could hear the General speak them as he wrote them, as I read them.

Yes, I understood, and no, I didn’t care. I didn’t do it as they wanted. I handed my finished work to the befuddled young officer with only a few words lined out. She stammered about that’s not what they wanted, and didn’t I understand what I could be, didn’t I see how I was sabotaging myself?

“Yes,” I said, “I see, and I understand, but do you understand?

“I resigned, so it doesn’t matter.”

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