Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
I pray for hope
I haven’t kept you too
long as I know that you’ll
always be the drink for
me and you, it always
seems like we’re getting lost in the
words can make a difference, especially how
they come and go through the spirals of
our changing lives and times because
what was once familiar has become
strange that I think of this now in
conjunction with where we’ve been and
where things have
gone are the expectations and
dreams are what keeps me
going for the goal that
I pray for hope.
Last night’s dream dragged me through a gamut of feelings — uplifting, frustrating, enervating, and energizing. It was just like writing a novel.
Here’s a little set-up. This dream was apparently a sequel, or part of a series. In a previous dream, I’d driven an exotic high-performance sports car. I had a great time with it, but while cutting through traffic, I lightly clipped another car. I need it in the dream, but I was having too much fun to care. I thought, who cares? It’s a dream. Enjoy it.
My dream last night began with me with my wife in our home. I received a document in the mail. Opening it, I found a letter from my previous employer, IBM. It was signed by like sixteen people, including a senior VP. The letter had a photograph of me in the car in the previous dream. A video played when I pressed on it, showing the moment when I clipped the other car and drove away. It had a clear image of my dismissive grin. The letter said, “Is this you? Please call.” A phone number was provided.
Shit, I thought. Shit, shit, shit. My wife was going to be pissed. I figured that I’d damaged something that belonged to IBM, they found out, and know they wanted me to pay. It’d probably be a substantial amount, and that’s what I thought would piss my wife off.
So I didn’t want her to know. Concealing the letter from her, I called the number. A cold female voice on the other end confirmed who I was, that it was me in the photo (or video), and told me the senior VP wanted to talk to me. An appointment was set.
I went in like I was being sentenced to death. IBM HQ was huge and busy. I stumbled around, lost, until I managed to get to where I needed to be. After I identified myself, the woman behind the desk left and came back with a man. Here it comes, I thought.
He confirmed who I was and that it was me in the vehicle, and then said, “We want to give you a job. The elan you demonstrated in this vehicle was just what we’re looking for. My boss will be out to talk to you about your pay, benefits, and the project, and then we’ll see if we can make a deal.”
Hot damn, I was so surprised and excited. I couldn’t believe it. What good luck. I was looking forward to telling my wife.
But a few minutes later, the woman came out and said, “Sorry, there’s been a change of plans. We’ve decided we don’t want to hire you. Have a nice day.”
Talk about flipping me over. I tried to talk her into another chance but she dismissed me and walked off.
Hurt, angry, and bitter, I left. Instead of walking, I took a train to my car. The train was packed, and I seemed to be in everyone’s way, which was like an anchor on my soul. Arriving at my stop, I left the train and trudged up the steps from the platform into the parking building. Thick burgundy carpeting covered the steps. I was the only one going up them. As I reached the top steps, I discovered a heavy burgundy overcoat. It was obviously expensive. Picking it up, I thought, I need to turn this in or find its owner.
I stepped into the upper level. Burgundy carpeting covered the wide, broad room. A group of men hustled toward me. They were talking about a basketball game. One of them, a short, bald man, seemed to be senior, as they obviously deferred to him. All were carrying briefcases, but he was dressed in a three-piece burgundy suit.
Stopping him, I said, “Excuse me, is this your coat?”
Surprised, he said, “Yes, it is. Where’d you get it? I’ve been looking for it.”
“I found it on the stairs,” I said.
“My goodness, well, thank you for finding it for me. I really appreciate it.”
He reminded me of the proctologist in the Seinfeld Ass Man episode, officially called “Fusilli Jerry”. “You’re welcome,” I said.
He then went to put the coat on, but his hands were full with bags. I said, “Here, let me help you.”
As I helped put him put his coat on, he laughed and said, “Well, thank you. You’re a fine young man.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. He and I turned to go in our separate directions. As we did, one of the other men called to him. Hearing the name, I realized that it was the senior VP that I was supposed to meet, who never met me.
Turning around, I watched him walk away, and felt better, because I thought we were going to meet again.
The dream ended.
This is a twofer Thursday post, featuring a dream and a song, because this song started in my dreamstream.
It was a turbulent stream, with multiple vignettes and one-act plays. I think the music made this one memorable.
“Conquistador” began playing in the dream. Hearing it, I said, “Hey, I know this song. “Conquistador”. Procol Harum.” After remembering hearing the song’s live version in high school in the early seventies, and talking to my friend, Bob, about it (in the hall in front of the art classroom, by my locker, where he was talking overly loudly and enthusiastic, trying to catch some girl’s attention), I thought about other Procol Harum music I know and wondered where the music was coming from. I couldn’t identify its source.
All that was backdream. I was in my most recurring dreamscape, which is dark green, slightly rolling hills. I seem to know or I remember such hills most often out of dreams. Accompanied by several friends, we were admiring two exotic hyper cars, a Lamborghini and Ferrari, that belonged to others, and discussing their styling, price, and performance capabilities.
My friends were envious, but I said, “Yes, but my car is faster than either of them, and costs more.”
They were skeptical. So was I. I thought my ride would be there by now. As it wasn’t, I didn’t think my ride was going to arrive, and was becoming anxious.
“Conquistador” ended, and my ride arrived, a stunning silver Aston Martin. “Wow,” I said, along with my friends. “Wow.” I never believed it would arrive.
Then, it was just there.
Of an indiscriminate age, I was at work somewhere. The place was vague, basically dark office facilities somewhere, like I worked in during the forty years that I was employed or in the military. My occupation and that location weren’t defined. Tired, I was waiting for word that I could leave. I was almost asleep. No one else was there, but every now and again, as I waited, the theme music to the old Tom Selleck “Magnum, P.I.” television show would play. I don’t know its source, and its timing for being played seemed random.
A phone call came in. It was my old friend and boss from my start-up years in coronary angioplasty. I could go home now, but I needed to be back or call in at ten. There was big news, and it was really exciting. Laura wouldn’t say more, but she seemed pumped.
Ten was only a few hours away. I hastened to leave but decided the place needed to be tidied before I left, to present the right image. As I began that, another guy, from my military days in Germany, came in. I started cleaning, and told him to help me. The two of us began picking up and doing dishes.
A friend from my time stationed at Kadena Air Base in Okinawa came and went. Then some friends from my assignment in Germany entered. I was almost done cleaning, and was hurrying to leave. Their arrival slowed me. I had some stuff to take with me. I wanted to put it in a bag, but the others would ask me questions and divert my attention. I kept going back to get a bag.
An ex-commander came in and ordered us to run a mile. When he did that, I saw that there was a quarter mile track. Everyone else began running. Food was being served. I think it was soup. Some of the bowls being used had been washed but were still dirty. I realized that the other guy had done a poor job of washing the dishes. That pissed me off, but I took it on myself to collect the bowls and wash them again, and then I rushed out and ran the mile, as directed.
The “Magnum, P.I.” theme music played. Time was running out. I felt exhausted. I just wanted to put my head down and sleep. I began believing that there wouldn’t be time to leave and call in, and that I would be better off staying where I was. I didn’t want to accept that. Others were talking about the news. The others were mostly military friends and co-workers, but there were some people there from my civilian work. The military personnel heavily outnumbered them, though.
I finally found a bag. It was a folded brown paper grocery bag. Another friend of mine saw me with the bag and said, “That’s what I need.” I took him back to the bags, showed them where they were, and gave him one. I put my stuff into a bag. I thought that I couldn’t leave but needed to wait, but I was stumbling around in exhaustion, with my eyes barely open, so tired that I struggled to think straight. I was asked to set up a connection using the phones for a conference call, but my lack of rest kept me from doing it right. What should have been done in seconds stretched out as I had to start over several times.
Laura, my old boss, arrived to give us the news. She saw me and hugged me. Everyone was told to gather to hear the news. The “Magnum, P.I.” theme music played.
Putting my head down, I went to sleep.
End of dream.
####
Writing this helped me recall and realize the elements in it, and put it into perspective. That’s why I write, to help clarify what’s in my mind and help me understand what I think. Running around, and being delayed, doing my duty, catching up, and waiting…it all made sense. Even the theme music from the television show made sense. They’re re-booting that show, the current entertainment parlance for remake. They like to say something is being rebooted, or re-invented. I believe that I’m being rebooted, again, as I was with so many military assignments, and then again with start-ups after retiring from my military, and again with my move into the formal corporate structure at IBM. I associate Laura with wonderful things happening, such as advancement, and financial pay-off. Working with her, I learned a great deal. She was a great mentor.
Either that, or this was a stew of hope, anxieties, impatience, memories, and wonder.
That works, too.
Last night’s vivid dream placed me as a minor actor on a science-fiction television series. The show runner came in and made big announcements that we needed to create a special, kick-ass show. He was running around with hyperbolic enthusiasm that spread like kudzu.
I decided I would be part of that. Seeing him crossing a broad, carpeted room, I intercepted him and regaled him about my desire to be a part of creating this special show. He said with broad puzzlement, “Who are you?” I explained I was a minor character actor on the show but that I had ideas for it and wanted to write. Then I told him some of my ideas.
It was enough that he didn’t shrug me off or chase me out. Nor did he endorse me. But I accepted that I was now part of the writing and production team. They were having an off-site. Finding out where it was, I crashed the site.
The place was chaos. Groups were entrenched around tables. Food was being served on a buffet table. The head writer and creator was walking around talking to people, but he wasn’t talking about the show. None of them were, as far as I could tell. I circled around the tables, looking for an opening to join. A few people knew me and chatted with me. A couple even introduced me to others.
Sometimes the groups would get up and move around. Each time this happened, I thought, here we go, now maybe we’ll start. But, no. They just resettled and continued chatting. Then, weirdly to me, it looked like they were breaking for lunch. They hadn’t done anything, in my opinion. By then I felt like an outcast and was dejected by their lack of direction and energy. I decided to leave.
Some who knew me saw me leaving and started talking to me, trying to convince me not to go, but I’d made up my mind. This was clearly not my scene. I’d go elsewhere.
Leaving required me to walk up a steep hill to a pedestrian bridge. The pedestrian bridge spanned eight lanes of traffic. Businesses like restaurants, stores, and gas station bordered both sides of the road. I could see a long way from here.
Some of the people from the show caught up. Several tried to engage me. I didn’t put them off, but I wasn’t interested in their entreaties. From the top of the hill by the pedestrian bridge, I looked for where I needed to go. It seemed like miles way. I would need to walk. The sun was hot, and the traffic rushing below increased the heat. Finding my destination, I resigned myself to a long way, and began making my way.
Ever see a bird soaring, kiting, or flying over the planet on some destination and think, I’d like to to fly like that? I’d like to fly away, sail, soar and wheel. Maybe you just wish for it in a more metaphysical way, dreaming of rising above your days of toil, strife, and trouble, longing for a better life.
I know I’ve had those days. Steve Miller captured the sentiment in musical expression in “Fly Like An Eagle” from 1976.
Feed the babies
Who don’t have enough to eat
Shoe the children
With no shoes on their feet
House the people
Livin’ in the street
Oh, oh, there’s a solution
These days are like and unlike other days. Days are like people and snowflakes, so similar on quick glances and shallows assessments but unique under study.
These days are wearying, grinds with the same sense of repetition and routine found in many livelihoods. That it is my choice mitigates some of my complaints but add some bitter flavoring in acknowledgement, this is the culmination of my efforts, dreams, thoughts, planning and decisions. Passing people working in the thirty-two degree sunshine, I know I have it fortunate but I still complain. Complaining seems to be my essence but I’m solidly stolid and stoic in my demeanor. Yes, I readily smile to address the world and otherwise seem affable. Under this is a worn and brittle sense that I’m hanging on. I don’t know what I’m hanging on to, for or why; I sense that’s pretty normal and a large part of our standard quest to learn why we’re here.
These days of wars, lies and misinformation are actually much like many days of other eras. There is always contention between classes, nations, parties and individuals about humanity’s course and about what should be done, with more and less callousness extended toward the general human condition, and more and less need for some to be powerful, wealthy and worshiped. These days, we’re not really sure what’s going to happen next but these days aren’t much different from other days. Our children are no longer practicing duck and cover at school so they can survive nuclear, biological and chemical attacks as so many children did in the 1950s in America. We have that going for us, these days, although the weapons and capabilities remain, ready for release when orders are given, codes are verified and buttons are pressed.
These days I take a deep breath and mount the stairs to the coffee shop. I find a table and set up shop. Order my drink and banter with the baristas. I collect story points and scenes in my mind, bringing up the things I thought in bed last night, in the shower, and during the drive and the walk today. Scenes gain momentum in my consciousness.
These days, I question myself, is this how others write? Bob Mustin offered a series of posts about Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize. In the series conclusion today, Mustin included the text of Dylan’s speech and a video of the US Ambassador to Sweden making the speech. Bob Dylan thought about and expressed what such an honor means, but more, Dylan wrote about his early hopes and expectations. He just wanted someone to hear him and get enough reward to do more of the same. As Dylan does and did, he gathers insights and neatly sums them up: that’s all we want, to find what we want to do and gain enough reward and recognition to carry on. Everything else is an unexpected benefit.
It’s a good grounding reminder. We don’t know what the future will bring. We can expend energy projecting and forecasting, striving to understand every nuance of nature and events to ensure we’re as prepared as possible, but we just don’t know what will come. We don’t know what dreams will be fulfilled, nor where we’ll fail. We can only decide to try and press on.
These days, it’s helpful as encouragement to keep going. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time. You never know what will come of it.
Not in these days.
Michael Seidel, writer 