Tag: friends

A Long Melancholy Dream

AKA, the Four Cars Dream

It could have been known as the Big House Dream, as well. Although I was about forty years old at the dream’s beginning, I was twenty at the end.

It began with a search for car keys.

I was looking for the keys for a car I owned when I was twenty, a signal orange Porsche 914. The drawer where I kept the keys was shallow and white. Another set of keys, for my RX-7, was in there, but where were the Porsche keys?

I began going through the house looking. The house was huge, rambling, and one story, with many low stone arches. Every room was empty except for that first one, which had a desk. This was my house; I’d newly acquired it.

Unable to find the keys, I ambled around the house until I stopped in one long and wide, all-white room. One piece of white furniture, a sort of stand turned upside down, was in it. Finding a can of black paint, I painted the stand. Finding other cans, I spray-painted the walls purple. As I finished up, a large, rotund, bald man with huge, muscular arms came in.

“There you are,” he said. “I need you to come with me.” He looked around at the painted room. “Nice job.”

I knew he was my minder and followed him. I was thirty by now. My minder told me that there was someone to see me. My minder showed me to the door.

Walking up a residential street, I encountered my old friend, Jeff. I haven’t seen or heard from him in RL in almost forty years. Jeff told me he had exciting news. He’d inherited a classic Porsche 911 from a friend. The guy had completely rebuilt it, and the car was pristine. Truly impressed, I congratulated Jeff. Jeff then said that he had a car for me and gave me the keys to a BMW. He said that he didn’t need it and he wanted me to have it.

I was flattered. I tried to turn it down. Jeff insisted. I accepted the keys to the car. The car wasn’t around. Jeff was going to have it shipped to me.

We parted. He went back up a hill, and I returned to my house.

I was now in my mid-twenties, wearing a brown leather jacket which I remember owning from RL. My minder was there, along with a girl who I knew to be sixteen. Her dark brown hair, like the color of oak, was long and shiny, framing a petite oval face. She smiled often, shyly. She wore jeans and a white button-down men’s shirt. She never said her name that I heard.

The minder left us. We chatted, with her peppering me with questions. Hearing a noise, I went out through one of the larger stone arches. It was late dusk, and the light was low. This arch opened to a path that entered the woods. I thought I heard and saw people down the path. It was my property, so I was concerned about what they were doing. As I walked, I picked up several flat stones to throw, if needed, as protection.

The girl had stayed back. After I returned, she questioned me about what was going on. I told her about the people and stood ready with the rocks. Young people came down the path, but they turned away from my house and property and kept going. Not needing my rocks, I set them down. With the BMW keys in hand from Jeff, I returned to the search for my Porsche car keys. This time I found them in the drawer where I’d first search. There was nothing else in the drawer. I thought that they must not have been there before, and someone must have placed them there after I’d searched.

I was now twenty. The minder returned. He said that Jeff wanted to see me. I went to the front door. Appearing very old, sad, and tired, Jeff told me that he’d decided to give me the Porsche which he inherited. I tried talking him out of it. He told me that he drove the car and saw himself in it, and that he looked ridiculous. The car didn’t fit him, but he believed it would suit me. Handing me the keys, he left.

I went outside of my house and sat against one of its stone walls. The girl came out and asked what was wrong. I told her that I was thinking about my friends and how I missed them. She noticed the keys and inquired after them. I told them that they were to four cars which I owned, and then described them. I could see each one. My Porsche was an orange 1974 model; the BMW was also a 1974 model. The green 911 Jeff gave me was a 1971 model year, and the blue Mazda was a 1981, which I had bought. She was most impressed when I mentioned the BMW, calling it a Bimmer. She said she really liked them. I answered, “No, you don’t understand, this is a vintage car from the 1970s, a white 2002. You’ve probably never seen one. They stopped making them before you were born.” I remembered then that I’d owned a BMW 2002 in RL and became confused: was I dreaming or remembering?

More dream followed about taking a trip with other people, but this is where I’ll stop.

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Thursday’s Theme Music

A Steve McQueen sort of quiet cool reigns today, Thursday, March 24, 2022. The sun spit some rays into the sky at 7:08 AM. Light came up but warmth is still to follow. We’re sitting at 47 F but are expecting a high of 74. Hazy blue rules over us, with a few larger clouds peeking around the ridges but it looks like we’re set for a day of sunshine. Sunset comes at 7:28 PM.

The cats are quiet today. Sick cat lingers on. He gave me a scare last night. I’d let him out the front to enjoy some fresh air. I was with him, then turned my back for a minute, and he was gone. I thought, I’ll probably never see him again. Broke my heart thinking of him out there in the cold, waiting to die. I cursed myself for my stupidity. My spouse and I donned flashlights and walked around, searching and calling for forty-five minutes. He neither showed nor answer. Then, lo’, two hours later, he was back at the front door.

I’ve been meditating on of my friend’s death, and my short history with him. I’ve only known him ten years. He was an intelligent, earnest, amiable guy. I met him through Brains on Beer, an informal group of retired scientists and engineers who like to drink beer and talk science, the arts, and politics. I was member number seven. Only one of the original six remain, but we’ve managed to expand to twelve. I advocated setting up a gofundme to take donations in his name for some of his charities, and the others agreed, so I’ll be doing that today.

These losses — the friend and sick cat’s waning battle — set me on a mental memory roadshow. Before living on Oregon, I lived in California for fourteen years. After moving to Oregon, business kept taking me to California for a few more years, so I have California on my mind. My neurons noticed and now “California Dreamin'” by the Mamas and the Papas (1965) in on the morning mental music stream’s PA system. It’s been featured as theme music before, but it’s a solid song and will work again. I like this video of it from the Ed Sullivan Show. Hope you enjoy it, too.

And now the neurons are whispering, “Pardon, sir, might we have a bit o’coffee for the blood?” Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the shots as needed. Have a better one. Cheers

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While I Was Away

I was out shopping with my wife, enjoying a fresh spring day. We’d been tight about going out during the pandemic. She is compromised with RA, so she worries, and I worry.

While I was shopping, I thought often at my sick cats at home, hoping they were okay, processing sticker shock and dismay at the most recent men fashion trends, especially in shoes.

I returned home. Both cats were alive and okay (relatively). My voice mail notified me of messages. The first few sounded shaken and just asked to receive a call back, no subject given. They arrived hours ago.

The third one got explicit. Word had gone out. ‘Mike’ had been hit by a truck and killed. No confirmation of which Mike. There are three in our group of friends.

Further messages and emails clarified: a friend of mine named Mike was hit by a truck and killed while delivering food to senior citizens. Eighty-five years old himself, he stayed busy, volunteering at numerous places, always helping others, or traveling to museums and art exhibitions around the country. He’d been a mainstay in our beer group and was the driving force behind the donations collected from the beer drinkers to fund STEM efforts in local at-risk, low-income schools, and for the regional high school robotics program. He leaves behind a wife who was also busy as a volunteer, and a huge gap in our community.

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A House Dream

I was split about what I was calling this dream because of its varying facets. WTH.

I was a teenager. I’d biked back to visit an area where I previously lived, to see the friends still living there.

But my friend wasn’t home. Platinum blonde and white, with hair and clothing styles lifted from the 1960s, aunts and older female family friends were there and told me, “Make yourself at home.” I was in the kitchen with them and felt uncomfortable because it wasn’t my place. They scoffed away those protests while they stayed busy chatting and doing things.

The large, bright kitchen was fresh, airy, and uber-modern. Hidden doors and cupboards were everywhere. The refrigerator opened and unfolded like a transformer toy and held an amazing amount of food. My astonishment rabbited higher with every revelation.

One aunt was looking for cheese. Announcing, “I can’t find it, I have to go to the store for it,” I replied, “Wait, no, I know where it’s at.” I showed her some unfolding refrigerator section that she didn’t know about where the cheese was tucked away.

After that, I walked around the home’s bottom level. My friend’s mother returned home at that point. Short and fair, blue-eyed, with pink lipstick and white gold hair cut like Marlo Thomas in “That Girl”, she told me that I was welcome to stay as long as I like. I demurred but walked around because the house fascinated me. The living room had two large, comfortably furnished conversation pits, but the back of the living room had two natural reflecting pools surrounded by cliff walls. I saw my friend’s Mom take her bikini top off and sit back, relaxing and meditating, but looked away, not wanting to impose on her.

Going on through the house, I found a large green lawn adjacent to the living room. No walls separated them. Another front door led into that area from the outside. Two front doors! I was quite impressed and thought, every house should have two front doors. It made sense.

I had my bike now, and pushed it toward the house’s back, where I encountered the ocean. Yes, there was a large beach, reminiscent of central California, inside their house, or the house wasn’t closed in on that end. I couldn’t decide which it was as I enjoyed the crashing waves and different bird varieties.

My friend still hadn’t returned. I decided to head home. I pushed my bike back up into the living room. Seeing his mother, still topless by the reflecting pool, I called out to her, “I’m going home now. Thanks for everything.”

She came to me, putting a tee shirt on as she did, and asked questions about my planned route home. Announcing she was going that way, she said that she’d ride with me, and pulled her bike out. She was doing some shopping that way.

We rode our bikes along a rutted narrow dirt road filled with potholes and talked. She asked me why I liked her. I told her because she was intelligent, clever, charming, and beautiful. I raved a bit about her house, which I thought was amazing. She was distant in reply; I realized she wasn’t paying attention but was focused on riding her bike.

We arrived at a little market where she wanted to stop to buy bubble gum. Small wicker buckets at angles on wooden platforms abounded in a cramped, small stall. She told me to pick out some gum for myself and then said, “Oh, I need to get tongue for the dogs.”

“Tongue?”

She was holding up several packages. “Oh, yes, they love it.”

I was bewildered. “But isn’t that bubble gum?” Then I thought, who would make tongue-flavored bubble gum? I must have misunderstood.

That’s where it ended.

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The Beer & Organization Dream

Middle-aged to the young side, I’d join some sort of commune. We were interested in helping one another by joining resources. It was a sprawling, wooded compound with multiple cabins and buildings. I wasn’t part of the core group, but I was an early member, joining while the group was still small. I was member number ten.

After joining, I noticed that they were a bit disorganized. I’d always had a knack and desire for organization and began addressing the organizational needs. I didn’t want to be aggressive about it nor upset the balance; I just wanted us to be more organized. As newcomers arrived to join — a young couple, then a smiling, middle-aged white male (who turned out to be retired military, like me), then several single women — I began inserting gentle reminders to the people placing them about where we’d put others, suggesting we could write these things down.

Several people suggested we have beer. A group of us sat down and sampled several different beers — IPAs, red and brown ales, stouts, porters, lagers. Another man asked me how I viewed the general groups. I told him my first preferences were stouts and porters, then ale and IPA, followed by pilsners and lagers. But drinking beer was like listening to music, and my preference and desires changed with the moment. We had a good conversation, full of laughter, about this.

We went back to the compound. It was a sunny day. More arrivals entered. One of them, a tall, tall-haired man, came to me and suggested I was the resident beer expert. I denied that and we joked back and forth. Then he invited me to have a beer with him. We sat down at a table. A woman asked us what we wanted. I wanted to know if she had any Oregon beers. She didn’t know and invited me to look around.

While looking at the beers and going through them, I noticed a food section that’d fallen into chaos. It was part of a circular display. Beers were on top; under them were layers of food, napkins, and utensils. Gleaning what was meant to happen with the setup, I re-organized it into what I thought was a better flow. A burly black man came up and announced, “I’m the proprietor of this establishment. I saw what you did with that display, and I’d like to offer you a job.”

We shook hands, and I thought about it, but declined the job with a smile. He replied, “I didn’t think you’d take it because you don’t look like you need it, but it never hurts to ask.” He told me to help myself, that he’d cover my bill.

I was flattered by his generosity. I found a dark, creamy ale to take back to my body. I poured into a glass; the creamy head rose up and overflowed. I sipped off head, laughing while I did. After talking about what I liked about the beer, I invited him to sample some. He did and declared that it wasn’t to his taste. “Too creamy.” I understood his criticism, as others had said that. “It’d been good as a beer float,” I told him. He’d never had one. I explained what it was and offered to order one for him when I realized that I was supposed to be meeting others. I said bye and left.

The others were supposed to meet me in a pub along the street. There were dozens of pubs, so I started at one end and entered, looking for them. Someone bought be a beer to sample at each. I thought it was would be boorish to decline their offers, so I accepted and drank. By the time I reached the last pub and found my friends, I’d drunk a lot of beers.

The new place was light and airy, with light pine walls, many windows, and picnic tables. I apologized to the others for being late and found that one of them, a female, worked there as a server. I didn’t know that and told her so, then sat. She brought me a beer.

On the table was a pair of women’s athletic shoes and a tube of pink gel. I wondered about these. The serving woman pointed out that the shoes had grass stains. The pink gel was supposed to get them off but it didn’t work.

Well, that was like a challenge to me. I took a shoe and applied pink gel. The gel started sliding off. She said, “That’s what always happened.” Undeterred, I used my finger to spread the pink gel along the shoe. Like that, the grass stains disappeared.

“You did it. You’re my hero,” she said.

The dream ended.

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The Balls Dream

The dream was odd. It was about me and two balls. Ahem. These were small hard-rubber balls. They easily fit in the palm of my hand. I’d been traveling with friends. The friends included a person I worked with about fifteen years ago — a female who I’ll call S — along with a male that I didn’t know, who was white and my age, and another female not known to me, but a friend in my dream. The male and I were throwing the ball as we chatted. First, we seemed to be in a mall but moved on to a gathering that was by a beach. As we went, we encountered other people, talking with them.

I also discovered a special affinity with the balls. Although dull red and normal in appearance, I discovered that I could hurl them with great power and accuracy. I first found this on my own, then decided to explore it with my male friend. This happened first in the mall area. He was about fifty feet away. I thought, I can really put some speed on this. Worried about him not being able to catch it, I refrained from throwing it too hard. After visualizing a six-inch square target in my mind, I threw it with impressive velocity. It landed right where I wanted but he had trouble managing to bring it in.

S joked with me about the balls. Out on the beach, I explained to the male friend that the ball was energized; I fed off its energy and it fed off mine. It was a matter of being in the moment. I thought that anyone could do it. He asked for a demonstration of what I meant. I sent him out into the water because I didn’t think he could catch it and I didn’t want it hurting anyone. When he was about a hundred yards out, with waves splashing over his knees, I whipped the ball at him. It shot out above the water with a little rooster tail. He flinched and missed it. The ball skipped into the water.

But I had a second one in my hand. Using the second ball, I called the first ball back to me. My throwing prowess catch the attention of the crowd. They clamored to see more. I discovered by trying that I could throw the ball in a high, long arc that would bring it back to me, and that I could catch it. After I demonstrated this, others gathered, including male and female children. I kept telling them that they could do it, too, and then would throw it to show them. They would try to repeat what I was doing but kept falling short. Some tried catching the returning ball when I sent it off in a long arc, but it would usually come in too fast for them. Even when they missed, I could put out a hand and have the ball return to me, even after it rolled to a stop on the ground.

S said, “You’re pretty good with those. I think that’s something special.” I thanked her with a laugh. That’s where the dream ended.

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The NASA Job Dream

I’d come to work in my car, a glossy black Porsche 911. It’s a vintage model from the early 70s. My job was with NASA, and I wore a black suit with a vest to work.

The work complex was bustling and enormous, featuring sleek trains to transport people around the campus. I went up an elevator to my office. It wasn’t huge, about fourteen by fourteen feet, with a desk, some plants, and standard office furniture. Pleasant, modern, functional. But, I shared it with another person. He had it during the night, and it was mine in the day.

My car had gone through some kind of mess enroute to work, and I was dismayed by its state. A man came along and told me he could detail my car while I worked. That was fine with me and I agreed. Going into the office, I discovered that my job was being terminated. A friend and co-worker came by and told me that I could find another job somewhere in the organization and encouraged me to take a walk through the halls to see what came up. Other workers greeted me friendly. They’d heard the news that I needed a new position. I stopped by an office that had three large letters in gold above the arched doorway where a large, jolly man told me to come in and see him. Going on, we stopped by another office where a second man mentioned that I’d promised him to come by before, and encouraged me to visit with him about a position. A third man encountered at a different office said the same.

My friend and I headed back to the office. He was clapping me on the back, telling me, “See? I told you you’d find another job.” I agreed and felt much better. It was about the end of the work day so he went off to go home. I went to find my car.

It was still being worked on but he’d done a great job. I had to hang around the office complex while I waited. Meanwhile, a friend of his came by and asked me if I had a bar. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I thought it was bar, and replied that I didn’t have a bar but one was available nearby. They became excited and asked if they could use it. I was perplexed; sure, of course. The friend hurried off and came back in a minute with a wad of cash, which he proffered to me.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Money for the bar.”

Conversation to clarify what was meant ensued. I realized what I heard as ‘bar’ was ‘badge’. They wanted to use my badge to enter the building. “No, no, I can’t do that,” I said. “It’s illegal and a security breach.”

The friend went away, irritated and disappointed. My car was done. I was charged $300. It was more than I’d expected but I paid. I was then ready to go home. But I had all these things that I’d brought with me. They couldn’t fit into the car. I don’t know what this stuff was, but I’d apparently been carrying it around.

Aha, I thought. I’ll take it to my office. I went up there. The guy who uses it at night had a meeting going on. Well, just had to interrupt. I stepped in, apologizing, telling them that I was the one who used the office in the day and I had some stuff to put in it. Mock boos rained over me but they laughed as it was done. I laughed, waved good-bye, and left the office to go home.

Dream end.

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A Ragtag Dream

I was staying in a disheveled sort of place, a ramshackle series of hotels connected to a large, decrepit aircraft hangar. The hangar was white; the hotels were pale green and light pink. A number of friends and my wife were there. We seemed like refugees trying to pull it together and move on.

Activities were taking place in all of the hangar. One person with us was S, a short, energetic woman who’d been an office manager where I’d worked. S and I met up by an aircraft in the hangar. The jet was something like a 737. We planned to take it to leave. But before we could board, S said, “We need to have all the rivets sealed.” She had a rag and some stuff. Showing them to me, she went on, “A little of this needs to be rubbed on each one.”

Looking up at the aircraft, I answered, “We would need to start at the top and work our way down, section by section.”

S said, “It needs to be done in about an hour. Can you organize people and get this done?”

I replied, “Sure, okay.”

She thanked me. We parted.

After we walked away, I thought, we don’t need to do that. That’s overkill. I’ll talk to S about that.

I kept going. I saw some other friends just arriving. They had some clothes. I recognized the clothes as some stuff I’d left behind. They were returning them to me.

But we didn’t meet up. I needed to get back to my room to get my wife ready to go. As I wend through people across the hangar to my hotel section, I saw another pile of my clothes on the cement floor and scooped them up to wear, then went to the room.

My wife was still in bed. I roused her. Our room was small and cramped, with a bed and a tiny bathroom. She was confused about what was to happen. I went about, explaining it to her while packing. She climbed out of bed; she was wearing gray pajamas. As she started moving and looking for clothes, she went into the bathroom. In there, I saw a huge cobweb with a dead mosquito eater hanging in it. I pointed it out to her, saying, “That’s been here the whole time that we’ve been here.”

She agreed, then as she moved around it, we saw other, larger ones.

We exited the bathroom. She said, “I need to think.” She took out four small gray rectangles from a bag, then set them on the floor, spacing them about four feet from one another. I didn’t know what she was doing.

Bending to the first one, she pressed a button on it. Music began playing. She repeated this with the next two. I recognized the music with each. She began dancing and singing to the music coming from the third. It was an old pop song by Abba, “Dancing Queen”. Then she moved to the fourth and pressed its button. She stopped dancing and singing, listening. I realized that it was playing “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen and sang along with it. She seemed unable to hear the music and stood listening.

Dream end.

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Sunday’s Theme Music

Here we are, another September Sunday. Sunshine struggles across a spatter pattern of rainy dark clouds. It’s September 19, 2021, another month darting through, pushing us toward the holiday season and a new year. The sun’s shy appearance came about 6:55 AM. The warmth was appreciated as the temp was down to the upper forties with humidity knocking a chill into the air. We’ll see sunset about 7:14 PM. Highs won’t be much to write about, the mid sixties.

I have the song “Pop Muzik” by M (1979) overflowing from the mental music stream this morning. Put it on the season. Football season. Had many NFL fans. Not infrequently, we’d come together to watch games, cheer heroes and mock rivals.

This is an interesting song from several points of view. Classic techno-pop of that musical era, one of the things about this song was how I had different friends at different times and locations exclaim that they could not stand this song. This was not rock and would not be tolerated. Randy, always of strong opinions, would demand something else be put on. “Gawd, change the station.” All hilarious to me.

Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get the vax. Here’s the music. Cheers

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