Tag: driving

Cars, Changes, and Control: A Dream

I drove into a Trader Joe’s parking lot to park and shop. I was driving my old white BMW 2002, a car I haven’t owned since I left Germany in 1991. It made ‘dream sense’ because I was about the age I was when I owned the car.

The parking lot’s left side was completely empty, bewildering me — why wasn’t anyone parked there? A large sign, facing the wrong way, explained not to park on the left side. Oh.

I moved my car. An older couple, dressed in fancy clothes, was there. I told them as I walked away from my car, “It would help if the sign faced the entrance, you know? Is something going on here today?”

They didn’t answer me but I heard the man saw as I walked away, “He’ll find out.” The woman tittered.

The store was busy inside. I decided to put down my cloth shopping bags for a moment and put them on a chair back by the older couple. Inside, shopping, I decided that I would buy a few things and picked up a frozen dessert that attracted my eye. As I thought about buying a few more things, I remembered that I’d left my shopping bags on that chair and rushed back to get them.

The bags were gone. I searched all over, but they were definitely gone. Morose, I returned inside to buy the frozen dessert.

Going back, my car was parked elsewhere but I knew where. It was also not my white BMW, but my wife’s gray Ford Focus. I went to the car’s right side to get in. Then I stepped back out and looked again where it was parked. The car to the left was so close, that door — which should be the driver’s side door — couldn’t be opened. I thought, it’s a good thing that I don’t drive on that side. Yet, I knew, with some confused reflection, driving is done from the car’s left side, not the right.

I was driving at the point and discovered a passenger, a pregnant young woman reading a book. First, I noticed that the book had my name on the front, but, startled by her presence, I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice you there.”

She replied, “I’m Gail. My daughter was with you when you were driving an SUV in a foreign land, a wild country. She wanted to visit you because she’s worried.”

Driving, I wondered and asked, “Is your daughter born yet?”

Gail answered, “No, but she’s due.”

I then turned left. The road ended and I was suddenly driving through a woods heavy with water puddles and thick, black mud. Gail said, “I want to get out here.”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t know what happened to the road but I’m turning around. I’ll take you back and let you out.”

I whipped the car around and was back on the road in a few seconds. Gail got out. I opened the hatchback to put a bicycle in because I knew it was mine. Then I wondered, why is my bike here?

Dream end.

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Comedy Festival Dream

Jerry Seinfeld and George Costanza are two characters from “Seinfeld”, a television series which was originally broadcast last century. Jerry Seinfeld played himself as a comedian living in New York, alongside Jason Alexander as his best friend, George Costanza.

I ran into Jerry in a dream. Jerry and I were talking when George came up. Jerry said to me, “Hey, we’re going to a comedy festival. Should be fun. Want to come?”

I agreed. After brief discussion, we decided I would ride with Jerry in his car, and George would drive himself, due to commitments after the festival.

Jerry and I set off on a straight road toward a sunset. Looking back, I confirmed George was following. Turning back, I watched the road in silence. Jerry, behind the wheel, was absorbed with his phone. We were coming toward a tree-line section and another vehicle was closing fast when I realized we were drifting across the centerline.

I said, “Jerry, the road,” but in a calm voice.

Without saying anything, Jerry set his phone aside and took the wheel, moving us to the right side.

We arrived at the open festival and met up with George. Jerry led us to our seats in an open-roof amphitheater. I settled in and watched acts, and then concocted my own and delivered a monologue up where I stood. To my surprise, it was broadcast a few minutes later to much laughter and applause.

The show ended. People began moving toward other activities. I realized that I’d lost track of Jerry and George and began walking around, both looking for them, and taking in sights.

Coming across a large pond set in rocks with fountains spraying into the air, I went into the water, in part for fun but also to escape the crowds. When I came back out, I realized that I’d been wearing sunglasses. I searched my pockets in case I’d absently taken them off but decided that I must have lost them in the water. Beginning to retrace my steps, I shrugged it off with the realization, the loss didn’t matter because this was only a dream.

Dream end.

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Fridaz Wandering Thoughts

It was the weirdest damn thing. I backed out of my garage and drive this lovely Saturday morning. As I straightened the car and drove down the street, a gray Tesla 3 pulled from the curb, preceding me. We were close enough and angled right that I noticed the driver — an older-looking, white woman, short gray hair.

She went down and stopped at the hill’s bottom. As I pulled in behind her, another gray Tesla 3 cruised by. Hand to Dog, that Tesla’s driver looked just like the first two.

The Tesla ahead turned left, falling in line with the first gray Tesla. Gasping with delighted surprise at such serendipity, I pulled up to the stop sign. Another gray Tesla 3 went by with another white, female, gray-haired driver.

No way, I thought. It was almost like a surreal dream.

Settling behind the three gray Teslas with their gray-hair white drivers, I wondered. Is this a trick of my mind, or triplets driving identical cars? I also imagined that an elaborate ruse was being pulled, but who was the intended victim?

Temptation arose to follow them and see if the three cars ended at the place and if the drivers really looked alike. But coffee, writing, and routine called, and I peeled away, leaving the mystery to be solved by another.

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Satyrdaz Wandering Thoughts

Eating oatmeal remains a little messy and problematic. It almost slipped off the spoon and down my chin.

Wait, I should set it up right: I’m talking about reverse days. That clarifies it, doesn’t it?

Maybe if I go further back, this will begin making sense.

I’m right-handed. Years ago, I decided that I would be right-handed on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’d be left-handed on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Sunday was dealer’s choice.

I began easy and worked my way into more difficult efforts. Along the way, I grew deeper appreciation for what left-handers must suffer in order to cope with our right-hand biases. My house feels specifically set up for a right-hand user. I never thought about that when I bought it; I accepted it as ‘normal’. I realized that many things can be changed to accommodate a left-hander, matters like how the faucets are oriented, and the way the dryer and refrigerator doors open.

After my practice with reverse days, I can only imagine how difficult daily life must be for natural left-handers. Learning to drive must require a Herculean effort.

Beyond those, I’ve become fascinated with how my right and left hands have negotiated into who does what. Holding and eating a banana, for example. I found that I hold my banana in my left hand so I can peel it in my right. Yet, I continue to hold it in my left hand while I eat it.

The most daunting task for reverse days: definitely shaving. I can shave my face okay with my left hand. But my left hand hasn’t earned my trust for trimming my mustache and beard. An electric razor is used for that task. Using it to shape things requires careful movement and concentration. I like it just so, you know. Although I’ve picked up my razor with my left and braced myself to do it and yet…wincing, returned it to my right. Yes, I am a chicken.

I’m sure I’ll someday summon the courage to permit the left hand to give the electric razor a go. Until then, the left hand won’t know what the right hand is doing.

Then it’ll learn just how hard it is being right.

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Twozdaz Wandering Thoughts

I live on Clay Street. Diane Street is three blocks away. It’s to the north, so it’s ‘up north’. But it’s at a lower elevation, so it’s ‘down the road.’ I pretty comfortably hold these two ideas in mind, even though they might appear to be at odds with one another. I suspect that this is why so many of The Neurons are packing up and abandoning me.

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Adventures in a Ferrari Testarossa: A Dream Journey

I am driving a Ferrari Testarossa roadster.

Ferrari red, it’s a wide, low vehicle. My wife is my passenger. We’re backing out of a garage. The passenger mirror hits the garage door frame. My wife gasps. I grimace. We finish leaving the garage and see that there is a Ferrari Testarossa mirror-shaped scallop removed from the garage door’s frame. I get out and check the mirror while my wife grumbles. The mirror is there but is upside down. A twist and I fix it, good as new. Nothing wrong with it, which amuses me; the mirror is stronger than the materials bracing the garage door. How funny is that?

We drive for a while at a fast but sedate pace. Then…in a jumbled shift, I’ve driven the Ferrari onto some kind of large transport. It’s like a train without a track, with a living room, kitchen, etc., and the mad chaos of eighteen people, including children. Many of the others there are known to me as actors and musicians, Oscar winners and Hall of Fame rockers. I’m amazed to be with them but also think, “About time.” A young blond Helen Hunt is present, herding three children running around. She’s managing but tells her children with a wicked smile and a gleam at me, “Hang on, children, Mommy has to drive this as fast as she can. It’s going to be hairy. Do you want Mommy to drive fast?”

“Yes,” the children all agree in repeated shouts while I’m agape, accepting, this is what I signed up for but I didn’t know what I was signing up for.

“Okay,” Helen Hunt says, “here we go.” She has a wooden stirring spoon her hand and is standing in the center of a room, children around her, toys strewn across the carpeted room. “Zoom,” she shouts, and thrusts her wooden spoon up.

The vehicle rockets forward. She waves her spoon and it rocks left, right, left. The children are laughing. I’m paralyzed in amazement. But we’re moving.

A conference among others is called and I attend. “Where are we going?” David Niven asks. “We’ll know when we’ll get there,” replies Bruce Willis, and a third who I couldn’t name tags on, “But we have to move fast.”

I offer to drive my Ferrari. It’s faster than this vehicle, so I can pull it along and we’ll get there faster. This is given serious conversation. I’m eager to do this but all decide, hold off for a while, let’s see what progress we make.

I go into another room and sit in a chair. A noise warns me, something is going out. “That’ll bring the ants out,” I think, looking down at the floor. Sure enough, as expected, a phalanx of black and red ants rush across the tiled floor. They’re going to be a bother if they go in the direction they’ve begun so I use a foot to divert their path. More obediently than cats, they turn in the new direction, and some wave thanks to me, because they understand why I diverted them.

David Niven finds me. “There you are. Come on, into the Ferrari. We need more speed. See what you can do.”

In a dream shift, I’m in the Ferrari but I’m alone. Others are hooking up the vessel and then shout, “Go.” The Ferrari is now black, I notice, and wonder when the color changed. Yet, I know it’s my Ferrari. I smashed the gas pedal and take the car up through revs, up through gears, snaking the car around traffic along an undulating and busy Interstate. Looking back, I confirm the vehicle is still being towed. I’m impressed that there’s no wind and little impression of speed. I feel in command, in control. This is a breeze, I think, speeding toward some brightly lit collection of skyscrapers looming larger on the horizon.

Dream ends.

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Life in Trump’s Alternative World

My wife and I climbed into the car. I started the engine. After over revving it, I began driving in reverse. My wife asked, “Why are we in reverse?”

“Everyone says that you get better mileage in reverse.” I swung the transmission into drive. “Now I think I’ll go this way.” I turned on the windshield wipers.

My wife peered into the sunlit blue sky. “Why are the windshield wipers on?”

“We need gas,” I declared. “We don’t have enough money for a full tank.”

“I’m starving,” my wife replied. “I thought we were going out for dinner. Where can we get something to eat?”

“We don’t have money for food. Just hold on.” I pulled into a miniature golf course. “I think I’ll play a game.”

My wife objected, “I didn’t think we have the money.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get more money.”

I went in and paid for the game. Before teeing off, I went back to the car. Jumping in, we drove off.

My wife looked around in puzzlement. “Where are we going?”

“Straight ahead.”

“This is the opposite direction of where we were going.”

“Don’t worry, I’m taking a short cut.”

“What happened to your miniature golf game?”

“I played it. Set a new record. I was stripes.”

“But you weren’t gone five minutes.”

“I know. It was the fastest golf game ever. I scored more points than anyone in the game’s history.” I steered the car into the path of oncoming traffic. “They were amazed. Said they’d never seen anyone play like that. They’re giving me a special golfing medal.”

A truck almost hit us. My wife screamed. “Get on the right side of the road. What is wrong with you?”

“Don’t worry,” I replied, “they’ll get out of our way.”

The car’s engine coughed and sputtered.

“What’s wrong with the car?” my wife asked.

“I think it’s the wind,” I answered, throwing open the door.

My wife gasped. “What are you doing? The car’s still moving. You’re going to get yourself killed.” Leaning across, she grabbed the wheel and began steering.

After turning on the radio, I leaped out of the car and rolled across a lane. A car screeched to a halt, almost hitting me. Leaving their car and coming toward me, the driver said, “Oh my God, I almost hit you. What’s going on? Are you alright?”

Beaming, I took off my shirt. “Aren’t I ripped?” I nodded toward my car as my wife managed to steer and stop it. “It’s my wife. She made me do it. She’s crazy. Doesn’t know a thing about flying. She shouldn’t be allowed near a boat.”

Stepping in front of a car, I waved my arms. “Help, help. Call the police. This guy’s trying to kill me.”

2

The Travel Dream

I was traveling on a large boat. It almost seemed like an enormous barge. Rusted and worn with use, it was safe but old, tired, and without comfort. It was also packed with fellow travelers. Most were women. I knew some, and my wife was among them.

The barge sailed on a rippling brown river so wide that the banks couldn’t be seen. We’d been traveling for days and getting close to the end. While many rode along as gossiping, resting passengers, I had a role of keeping things as organized as possible. This had me racing around. I was often on metal walks above the rest, and would look down and see what was going on as I rushed from task to task.

At one point, I was forced to go down among them. I’d stripped off clothing because I was hot. Wearing only my boxer shorts, I couldn’t find my clothes.

I didn’t care. It was important that I go down and do what was needed. My arrival in my underwear drew attention and comments. I shrugged them off. I overhead my wife undertaking explanations about ‘who I was’, but that didn’t matter to me.

Abruptly, we arrived and disembarked in a chaotic surge. I found myself driving a powerful white sedan filled with people. Racing away from the docks on surface streets, I saw a speed limit sign, 80 MPH. Stepping on the accelerator, I merged with traffic onto a huge white cement Interstate. We were going down a short hill through a curve. Ahead was an enormous hill and multiple exits listed. I called out to my wife, who was in the back seat, for instructions about where to go, demanding, “Which exit do I need to take?”

She replied, “I don’t know, I haven’t been paying attention.”

That infuriated me. I wanted to verbally berate her but then thought, why wasn’t I paying attention?

Dream end.

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Fridaz Theme Music

Snap, crackle, and whoosh. September’s final Frida descends on us. September 26, 2025. 54 F outside. Sunshine, blue sky, changing trees, classic Americana fall look. We’ll climax at 80 F today.

Dreams again propel today’s music choice. I’ve been dreaming deeply, frequently, vividly. While thinking about last night’s featured dream this morning, all about a boat ride on a wide river on an overcrowded boat, followed by a fast drive on a wide highway in an overcrowded car, Les Neurons brought Mazzy Star into the morning mental music stream and “Fade into You” plays.

[Verse 1]
I wanna hold the hand inside you
I wanna take the breath that’s true
I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth
You live your life, you go in shadows
You’ll come apart and you’ll go blind
Some kind of night into your darkness
Colors your eyes with what’s not there

[Chorus]
Fade into you
Strange you never knew
Fade into you
I think it’s strange you never knew

h/t to Genius.com

Reading last night, this morning. Realizing again how much U.S. conservatives feast on violence and hypocrisy. Decry violence, but always blame others for it, and never do anything about it except their Twister edition of the blame game. In that way, they’ll always have their violence, always have their game to play, which distracts and enrages their base, and keeps conservatives going. If not for violence and taking down freedoms, and giving tax breaks to corporations and the wealthy, the GOP has no platform. Sure, the claim they’re for law and order. Anyone without their head up Trump’s ass knows that’s a play they’re putting on. The GOP staunchly declare they’re for small gov’t, another farce as they launch government into being meddlesome and invasive while reducing the ways in which it’s helpful. GOP also lectures that it’s for state’s rights, but that’s only when doing so serves them. No, they’re for big, controlling, violent government.

The Trump Regime likes to brag ’bout how great it is. How wonderful they’re making the United States. Trump is especially bullish about his accomplishments but when you line up the facts, he comes across like a fourth grader bragging about getting the best grade in class when it turns out he failed. This thought comes after reading a Daily Kos piece about Trump’s FEMA withholding funding from hurricane victims. Trump’s alternate female version, Kristi Noem, bragged about how fast they were doing it. Turns out the states are saying, nope. We’re not getting much help from them.

Hope peace and grace shows up in your day. If it shows up in mine, I’ll offer it some coffee, something to eat, something to feed upon and grow. Got my coffee. Awaaay we go. Cheers

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Saturda’s Wandering Thoughts

I am again mystified. This isn’t shoutitfromtheroof news. I’m often mystified.

I know I mystify others, too. Especially my wife. She often avoids asking questions to clarify, preferring to express her doubts and confusion with her facial expressions. I used to ask her, “What’s that look for?” when I was young. I don’t make those inquiries these days.

My mystification is again with other people. Specifically, other drivers. They often mystify me. Cars stop four car lengths back from the car in front of them. “Why do they do that?” I ask myself and my wife. We laundry list reasons for fun. It’s not satisfying because I never know the real answer.

Other driving aspects which mystify me is the lack of adherence to speed limits. It’s not that I’m worried about speeding. I speed. No, the other drivers’ weird behavior in regards to speed limits trigger me. “It was thirty-five,” I tell my wife. “And they were going thirty. Now it’s a twenty-five miles an hour limit and they’re still going thirty.”

“I think most drivers don’t pay attention,” my wife says.

I agree with her in principle, but I don’t know. That bugs me.

The latest driving mystery involves turn signals. “I’ve noticed a new trend,” I tell my wife. “People are coming to a traffic light, stopping at the red light, but if they’re turning, they’re not putting on their turn signals before until they start to turn. Why do they do that? Don’t they understand what a turn signal is about?”

“Maybe they forgot where they’re going,” my wife says.

That’s possible. But I don’t know. That bugs me.

Returning from the library the other day, she rushed in and said, “You’re right. I had three different drivers not turn on their turn signal until they began turning. What’s going on? Why are they doing that?”

“Right?” I respond. I’m very pleased.

It’s always good to have someone else join your party.

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