Tag: friends

A Chaotic Moving Dream

There I was,  in the midst of people and stuff on rolling hills of green grass. Stuff, being a broad, vague word, amply covers it. Stuff was everywhere, so vague that I can only say, I looked around and saw stuff, because there was too much to take in.

People were coming and going, including friends. I ‘m expecting this. I’m getting ready to move. A friend’s telling me that I need to organize. Make lists and do research about my move. Yes, I was answering him, I do and I will. Happy, I looked forward to my move.

*click* My mind shifted. What should be Sunday’s theme song. Mamas and Papas. No, that’s Monday. Kris Kristofferson, “Sunday Mornin’ Coming Down”, or Johnny Cash. U2, “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” the Monkees, “Pleasant Valley Sunday”. “Easy Like a Sunday Morning”. “Sunday Girl”. No, no, no.

*click*  Shadows grew long. Sunlight dimmed. The green hills began retreating into darkness.

People are rushing about. Others are moving. Time for me to move. I made lists and gave them to friends. This is what I need. The lists were very specific. Go get these things. People reviewed the lists and talked about the items. I don’t remember anything on the lists. I was bubbling with happiness.

Had a black index box filled with cards. It’s the black box, I think. Items are on the cards. I flip through, picking from the cards, what do I need, what do I need? Had a black book to look things up, research what everything meant, so my list was accurate. I hadn’t looked anything up. I wasn’t certain that I needed to but one friend was present, insisting that I should. I resisted, but told him that I would.

Oh, sudden and sharp, I needed to have a bowel movement. Where’s the toilet, where’s the toilet, where’s the toilet.

I begin running around. The toilet is out in the open by my friends. They’re talking to me. I’m babbling about needing to take a shit, scrambling to get my pants down, and sit on the toilet, hurry, hurry, hurry. My friends are watching. I’m calling for privacy. They’re turning away. I’m thinking, movement, movement, another kind of moving, what’s with all the moving? I sit on the commode. The movement begins. I’m laughing because I’m thinking, I’m getting rid of shit. I tell my friends that.

I’m not worried. I’m happy. The move has begun. I start singing, “Bust A Move”.

The dream ends.

 

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Three Brief Dreams, One Night

The first dream was simple and peculiar. I was with male friends from different times of my life, but we were all young adults, regardless of how old I was or they were when I knew them. I think there were a dozen of us. All were people I haven’t seen in years. Some of them have died.

We were playing a game in the living that required us to bounce off the walls. I was watching, though, trying to remember the game’s name and the rules. One friend went into the kitchen. I went after him to ask questions, but the dream was interrupted, and that’s where it stopped.

My second dream was about land, property, and building. My wife and I had bought some property. The deal was set in motion, but was incomplete.

Visiting our property prior to taking possession, a sort of wooded country place of several acres and buildings, we encountered a group of young teenagers with a pile of remotes. They were taking turns hurling remotes at trees and rocks to break the remotes, an activity that fed giddy laughter. Talking to them about it, a smiling girl said that her father encouraged them to break the remotes like this to relieve stress and tension. Feeling that we could use a release, my wife and I threw some remotes and concluded, it is a great way to relieve stress. Meanwhile, I wondered how they’d collected so many remotes.

We went into a small house that was part of our new property. A balding, stocky man and several teenagers were busy working on it inside. An old building with white walls, tall, traditional windows made it a light and airy place. I somehow know that the layout was different than it had been. The man working on the place confirmed it, explaining what had been where and how they’d been moved. As he talked, I said, “That’s right, you’re the original building.” He confirmed that, but I knew that he wasn’t the person who sold us the property. He confirmed that, too, telling me that he’d been hired.

Then I remembered his name was Was, but then questioned myself on the spelling. Was it Was, Waas, or Wass?

In the third dream, I was flying in an aircraft. It seemed like it was an advanced technology. It lacked wings and was quietly traveling fast and high above a planet.

I thought the planet was Earth, but I wasn’t sure, and was collecting details in search of verification. A bright yellow-white sun shone in a blue sky. Only a few sketchy, high cirrus clouds marred the sky’s impeccable blue. The ground below was mostly sandy brown and flat with green and dark blue patches that sometimes looked black. I took the dark blue/black patches to be lakes or puddles. A haze-filled horizon seemed to veil mountains.

I tried understanding which way we were traveling, and the sun’s path, as a way to verify it was Earth. Therein was an interesting duality. I was in the dream with friends (although they’re nobody that I know from this life), discussing our plans (we were on a mission to find other people), but I was also aware that I was in the dream and was trying to understand the dream.

That’s where it ended.

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The Actors As God Dream

I was with my friend, Ron, sitting at a cafe table outside. Another friend of mine, Marge (who doesn’t know Ron, and lives across the country in Ohio), came up. She said, “Can you think of anyone who played God in movies?”

As Ron and I took in the question with a look at one another, Marge said, “I’ve tried, and I can’t think of anyone.”

I said, “Well, off the top of my head, I can think of Morgan Freeman, George Burns, Alanis Morrisette – remember? She was God in Dogma.”

Ron said, “Morgan Freeman played God?”

“Yes,” I said, “in that Jim Carrey thing. I think it was called Bruce Almighty or something. I’ve never seen the whole thing. I think I saw some of it in a hotel.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ron said.

I said, “Didn’t Whoopi play God in something, too?”

None of us were sure. Marge said, “Thank you.” As she did, Ron and I pulled out laptops to Google actors who played God in movies.

That was the dream, short, sharp, and clear. What’s not clear is what it meant and why I dreamed it. My guess is that it was some food generated neuron frenzy.

I never asked Marge why she asked the question.

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Older

I’ve noticed that as I’ve grown older, the span of years among my friends is much greater. I have several good friends who are older than my parents. That enlivens some conversations when I say, “Mom is getting older.”

I struggle with imagining having a friend who was twenty-five years older than me when I was, say, five, but if I wrote a novel about it, I’d probably call it, Her Oldest Friend.

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Wednesday’s Theme Music

This song, “One Night Love Affair,” has been streaming off and on in my head throughout the last several days. Although it was released and became a hit in 1984 when I was stationed on Okinawa, I associate the song with Onizuka Air Station in Sunnyvale, California.

I was in charge of the base command post at Onizuka. We were living in base housing on Moffett NAS in Mountain View. Several of the people who worked for me were neighbors. We used to throw huge parties, playing music and volleyball, singing, dancing, grilling out and drinking for a day.

I made mixed tapes for these affairs. One of the tapes included several Bryan Adams songs, including “One Night Love Affair”. This song, in particular, would always start an argument. It followed a Boston song, “Foreplay/Long Time”. One guy loved Boston. He thought Boston and Van Halen were the greatest rock bands ever. He despised Bryan Adams. The other liked Boston and Van Halen. While he preferred Bush and STP, he staunchly defended Bryan Adams as a rocker. Once this discussion commenced, it would continue off and on until the party ended. Sometimes they’d be the last ones there, still talking about it.

The memories make me smile.

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Sunday’s Theme Music

This morning found me awakening with a song streaming in my mind. How unusual! I don’t believe that’s ever happened before (*snark*).

The theme du jour was being delivered by Sammy Hagar on vocals as part of the amplified group called Van Halen. The song, “Why Can’t This Be Love”, was released during my formative years. 1986 found me moving from South Carolina to Germany.  I was a wee lad of thirty years old, and full of wide-eyed wonder and innocence. My new friends introduced me to this interesting musical genre called rock. That changed my thinking forever.

I really associate this with Randy, though. After Germany, my next assignment took me to California, where I met Randy. Now dead of cancer at fifty-nine, he was a huge Van Halen, Boston, and Atlanta Braves fan. Go to his home, and it wouldn’t be unusual to find him on the patio smoking, windows open and drinking coffee or beer, with Van Halen, Boston, or the Atlanta Braves on.

Crank it up. You know Randy would.

 

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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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Smockville Brewhouse

I’m pleased for my friend, Ron.

Ron’s son and daughter-in-law have started a business. Located in Sherwood, Oregon, it’s called Smockville Brewhouse. Click on the link, and check it out. Go ahead, I’ll wait here.

Smockville

I’m please for Ron, not because his son is opening a business, but because of the relationship the two of them, and the entire family, demonstrated while the idea germinated, the business plan was created, and the brewhouse established. It was beautiful to see Ron’s happiness, pride, and enthusiasm.

I hope the business flourishes. If it’s dependent on enthusiasm and pride, there’s a damn good chance that it will.

 

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His Dark Secret

His dark secret wasn’t that he disliked coffee. Nor was his dark secret the revelation about how broke he was, or how he collected cans and bottles from the streets and did odd jobs to have the money to buy a four-shot mocha at the coffee shop every day.

His dark secret wasn’t that how he worked for the money and spent it on coffee every day because he liked flirting with the young women who worked behind the counter. Neither was his dark secret his admission that his coffee shop visit was his day’s only highlight, and he looked forward to it each morning. No, his dark secret, that he didn’t share even with himself, was that they were the only friends he had.

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