Tag: Dreams

The Rocket Man Dream

Dreamed last night that I had rockets attached to my back and was flying across the country with my arms stretched out like wings. The rockets appeared to be silver tanks. Dark goggles covered my eyes but I was otherwise casually dressed in jeans and a shirt. Wondering about my clothes was part of my dream, because I was surprised I wasn’t better prepared for flying by wearing something more appropriate for it.

As I flew, I’d get distracted by the views and forget where I was going. My outfit came back to bother me, too, and I considered landing to find something more suited for flying. I was high over mountains (and spent some thought on trying to understand what mountains they were) and thought, I should be colder. I was surprised and impressed that the weather and altitude didn’t bother me, even as I watched storm cells moving my way. It reminded me of flying over France once, where we had to avoid black cells wealthy with snakes of lightning. Our aircraft was a C-130, and it wasn’t capable of climbing over the storms. I wondered if my rockets could take me higher, but then realized that I might have problems with air pressure and breathing. At the same time, I thought, but I haven’t had a problem yet.

That’s where the dream ended.

 

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The Porsche Dream

I dreamed about a Porsche again last night. 

I dream about them often, and post about them sometimes. (The last one that I remember posting about was an Arctic blue Porsche cabrio, an older model, and I won the right to drive it thanks to my friend, Kevin.)

Porsche – I’m talking about the car manufacturer – represents success and style to me. I fell for Porsches during my first decade, when I discovered cars and then racing. I became a fan of the E-type Jaguar and the Chevrolet Corvette Stingray.

Jag Corvette

 

 

 

 

From them, I found Aston Martin and Ferrari, and then Indy, Le Mans, Can-Am racing, and Formula One. The Ford GT became dominant at Le Mans in the late sixties, but the Porsches were there, too. Then the mighty Porsche 917 came on the scene, and my neighbor, a Volkswagen sales person, brought home a Porsche 911S and took me for a high-revving ride.

In last night’s dream, I was part of some process. I was with many others that I knew. We were outside. Our role was to receive incoming people. While I understood who the incoming were, that knowledge seeped away once I woke up. I don’t know if they were students or refugees, but both of them paw at me as plausible.

My role was to organize and hand out information packages when the newcomers arrived. The task was in my wheelhouse. I did it quickly and easily. That left me with a lot of free time, so I purchased a Porsche.

Silver, it was a new 911 Turbo Cabriolet, a sweet ride. After I ordered it, it arrived. I walked around, admiring it with my wife. Others came and gawked, asking the usual questions about the expensive high-performance car. That’s your car? You bought it? People were amazed that I had the resources.

That statement became key to understanding the dream.

Meanwhile, between my work, I explored the car. First, I got into it with my wife. The foot wells were shockingly small. Oh no, we didn’t fit. 

Then, miraculously, we did. The Porsche changed to accommodate us…or did we change? It wasn’t clear in the dream world.

The Porsche’s dash was covered by a black plastic panel to protect it during shipping and delivering. I carefully pried it away, revealing a dash that sparkled like jewels.

I wanted to drive it, but the car intimidated me. I knew it was powerful, and I love mashing the throttle when I’m driving. I knew that with this power, the car could bite me in the ass with that behavior. It reminded me that I’d had a powerful sports car in real life. One person told me that they’d owned one, but traded it in after a few months, because the car’s power scared them. Others told me that they’d test-drove the car, but decided against buying it primarily because of its power, speed, and acceleration. Those were the things I loved about it.

RX7

I remembered that car and how I drove it while I dreamed. Those memories reassured my dream-self that I could handle the Porsche. I fired it up and then took it for a short drive, feeling it out, but not opening it up.

I returned to the dealer to do some paperwork. They’d been looking for the car because they hadn’t released it. I was worried that I’d done something wrong, and they laughed, waving it off. “No problem.”

A sales rep took me over to gain full and legal possession of the car. At the counter, I was asked to tell them what car I had. I hesitated. Then I said, “Porsche.”

“Which one?”

I hesitated. As I was about to say, “911 Turbo,” the man with me said, “Top of the line, a Turbo, fully loaded.”

“Wow,” people said. Blushing and self-conscious, I said, “Yes, I have a Turbo.”

It was a strangely reassuring dream about my writing as I walked and thought about my writing turbidity. Relax, and don’t fear the process, I told myself. I’m in a Turbo.

Time to open it up and take it for a ride.

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The System Connections

I took an unplanned writing break. One of those things called death interrupted the usual progression.

A family member died. It was expected, sooner or later. The sooner seemed to be getting closer but it came as a surprise. She’d been hospitalized with flu, pneumonia, congested heart and lungs, things complicated by her Parkinson’s disease. We were originally certain, this might be it, but that morning the doctors said, “Hey, she’s doing better. She can probably leave the hospital in two or three days.” They were wrong. She left that day, but she was no longer alive.

I shut down the writing component in my brain. I know this about myself: the writing component demands a lot of energy. It puts me in another place, but removes me from the moment. Being removed from the moment means that my patience and empathy become compromised. That wouldn’t do. So, shut it down, I ordered.

The writing component was kept shut down for three days. I was given writing time but chose not to indulge it. I knew what it would mean. I took the time to think of life and other matters instead of writing.

What I didn’t expect were the side-effects. I slept miserably, tossing and turning way more than the usual. I also didn’t dream, or didn’t recall any dreams, and I seemed a lot hungrier. I never felt rested.

I imagined the chemical and physiological reasons probably contributing to my side-effects. The drugs my body releases through the creative process and writing. The highs achieved, the flow of neurotransmitters and their interactions, and why writing is an addiction.

I kept the writing component off until today. Notifications of the death are completed. Grieving has commenced and progressed. Funeral and burial arrangements have been made.

When I turned the writing component back on, it was a deluge. Whoomp. I was slammed with words and thoughts to write.

Interesting experience. Fascinating, to me, at least. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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The Porsche Dream

One of last night’s dream seemed structured like a feature film.

It began with me becoming aware of a contest. I can’t tell you the details of the contest. They were vague and dreamy. But I entered the contest and was selected as one of the winners.

That thrilled me. As a prize, I was going to drive a Porsche 911 Cabrio. It wasn’t the current model, but a car that was part of a collector’s garage. I was happy and excited.

But the dream took a twist. Other people needed help. It wasn’t inconsequential help, but help they needed to survive. Although it meant that I would miss out on my prize, I did what I needed to do to help others. Yes, on the one hand, I regretted that I would miss out on my prize. On the other hand, come on, it’s a silly prize, compared to the larger picture of helping others who are fighting to survive. There wasn’t a question; it’s what needed to be done.

Smiling and happy, they thanked me after I helped them (I literally gave a number of people helping hands to climb out of muddy, swollen rivers.) When it was all over, I waved good-bye to them, satisfied with the result.

Taking another turn in the dream, though, a friend, Kevin, showed up. He said, “I called the guy and told him what you did and why you didn’t get your prize. He admired you, so he came up with another prize for you.” I was presented with the keys to an Arctic blue Porsche 911 Cabrio.

Oh, it was gorgeous. Although it was a cold day, with melting snow all over the place, it was sunny, and the car’s top was down. Kevin and I got into the car. I started it up and drove it carefully through puddles of slush and over patches of snow and ice.

Kevin said, “Come on. What are you doing? My grandma drives faster than this. Open it up.”

But I’d had a plan. I was getting to a place where I could turn and go up a hill onto a mountain road. Right as Kevin finished making his plaintive statements, I downshifted and mashed the throttle. As he was slammed back in his seat, he laughed and said, “Whoa, shit. This is more like it.”

Laughing, with the car’s engine in full song, I accelerated up the mountain road.

That was the dream’s ending.

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Such Weird Dreams

I haven’t been posting about my dreams in the last few weeks. There’s a plethora every night, but these two from last night seem so strange, I felt driven to share them.

In the first dream, I was at a competition. Dressed in dark swimming trunks, my team mates and I were standing in water up to our chest. I was in my mid-teens and white; the others were likewise young, but were people of color, and all male. No females were in this dream.

For our competition, we had to launch some small toy projectiles on the sandy sea floor. I’d been experimenting with it and developed some insights into how to set up the little plastic launcher for the best results. The launchers shot out small items like pebbles, marbles, bottle lids, and crayfish. They didn’t go far, and nothing was harmed.

What was odd to me as we practiced was that we were standing up in water to our chest, but bent down to the ocean floor to set up and launch things. We did that without putting our heads under water. I realized that in the dream, and keep thinking about it: how were we bending down in four feet of water without getting our heads wet?

The second dream found me experimenting with missile launchers. These were supposed to provide trains proactive protection. I was at a very large conference/school working on this. Working alone, I pursued ideas that were outside of my realm about taking one product and using it in an unplanned way.

It worked! Excited, I attended a large morning briefing where the top guy was being briefed on projects. After the formal briefings finished and the meeting was breaking up, I made my way to the top exec, sat down and told him my plan, how I tested it, and how it worked.

He was impressed. “Really,” he said. “You did this? I’m surprised I didn’t hear about this.”

Eagerly I explained how I’d procured and modified the parts, and then tested them…

…in my dream….

The admission and realization stunned me.

He was staring at me. “You did it in your dream?”

“Yes.” I was mortified. “I tested it in my dream.” I almost mumbled the words.

“But you haven’t really tested it.”

“No.” I stood.

“I thought I would have heard about it,” he said, and then turned to go on with other things.

Humiliated, I left. I found a place to sit and think alone, but people kept looking in or passing by me. I knew from their glances and snippets of comments that they’d heard about what had happened. They were stony-faced and silent when they looked at me, and avoided meeting my eyes.

I vowed to leave there. Day was beginning. The main body of workers were arriving. The place was noisy with busy, energetic people.

Dejected and angry, I didn’t want to be there. Packing up a box of personal items, I went and found one of my team members. I called her to me. She was just beginning to start her work day. “I’m going home,” I told her. “If anyone asks, that’s where I’m at.”

I hid my face when I spoke to her so that no one could read my lips, and spoke softly so others couldn’t overhear me. Those circumstances forced me to repeat what I said before she understood.

She was concerned and sympathetic, asking if everything was okay. I didn’t want to explain, and left without saying anything more. As I did, I kept thinking, it was only a dream. I’d confused it with reality, and had acted upon a dream like it was real. That worried me about my mental state, but also worried me about how others perceived me, and what was in store for me for my future.

 

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The Prize Dreams

I dreamed of prizes last night. There were at least dreams, or prizes, involved.

Awakening to Papi the ginger cat’s request to enter, I remembered the dreams. But after tending to him (and the other cats who were roused by the activity) and taking a whizz (of course, since I was up, is what my bladder seemed to say), the dreams were sharply recalled. I thought about them as I returned to bed and sleep. But, awakening this memory, I found that I’d suffered dream amnesia. I remembered I’d dreamed about prizes, and there’d been three dreams, but I only remember one prize.

The prize was part of a game. Doing activities in the game earn you points. Most activities earn you one to four points. But the prize I won was a collector bill. Considered extremely rare, it was worth one hundred fifty points.

Bummer that this is all I remember, other than grinning like mad when I won it. Perhaps more will return to me later.

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The Pre-writing Walk

A northern wind slices off some of the sun’s warmth. It’s a surprisingly clear, bright sun, the kind of sun that appears after storms dump inches and feet of snow.

But there’s no snow today. Snow is as rare as found diamonds this year. Ashland’s traffic is light. Town’s energy emanates a feel-good vibe. Restaurants are gearing up for lunch. Enticing aromas tempt and tease on every corner and most doors. I identify grilled burgers, French fries, and grilled onions among the scents. There are others that tantalize but leave without identification. We have a lot of good eateries and abundant offerings. Fortunately, their plot to capture me is avoided.

The writer, editor, and I discuss today’s writing plans, works spoken only in my head, so others don’t pin unwanted labels on me. The plans are fully developed, and I’m eager to get to them.

Still, I walk, thinking about last night’s dreams. One in particular trots alongside my thoughts. I was doing dishes, and I had a plan, but I was falling behind…is that about writing, life, or something else? It involved a POTUS but not the current guy. Others want to step in to help me, but a woman instructs them, “Let him go.” I struggle, turning in different directions, becoming thoughtless and distracted about what I was doing. It occurs to me that the sinks in my dream were full of dirty dishes and hot, soapy water. I slip a reminder into my head to look that up.

Lifted by the day, I walk longer and farther than planned, but finally make the turns necessary to reach my office away from home, the coffee shop where I write. ‘My’ space is available, and I take to it.

Time to write like crazy, at least one more.

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Dream Fulfillment

When I was young, I imagined great careers for myself, glamorous and exciting vocations, like rock star or racing driver. Didn’t come close to either of those, but fulfilled one of them in last night’s dream.

Yes, I was a racing driver, an unknown in Formula 1. Being unknown bothered me not. I was just happy to be there. I was with another rookie driver. Short, he was from somewhere in South America. This was the season’s second race. He’d won the first race. I wasn’t in the first race, but the media was mobbing us because we were rookies, especially him, winning that first race, and his F1 debut.

The time for the current race arrived. There wasn’t any qualifying for reasons I don’t know, and I was starting from the back. (I think this was just a dream contrivance as a metaphor for how I view myself and my life sometimes.)

Then, just like that, I was surging through the field, was at the front and gone. My wife was in the pits, watching, and was mega-impressed. (Yes, I was given that view.)

“Where’s the other guy?” I wondered about my fellow rookie while the race was still going on. That question permitted me to view a screen in my car that showed the car’s relative positions, a setting that you can sometimes select in video racing games.

There was my car, in light blue, number one, and well ahead of the pack. The other rookie, in red, was fifth from last. I was exuberant for myself, and sympathetic for him.

I won, of course, amazing all. My wife’s excitement seemed to equal my own. If only life could be more like my dreams….

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