Tag: moving on

The Roger Moore Dream

I was given a DVD. “Review this. It’s your life.”

I don’t know who spoke to me. I took the disc and put it in a player and sat in a chair, feet on ottoman, remote in my hand. Surprise number one: I looked like a young Roger Moore.

Watching the video of a young child doing things outside in bright sunshine, I felt doubt. This isn’t my life, is it? Doubts increased when a blonde white woman in a red dress showed up. That’s not me. She was driving a red Lamborghini Urraco. Dream me drove a gray Urraco. She couldn’t be me, could she? My doubts began diminishing as a watched her driving around, walking around, attending classes, talking to people, all snippets, all while she wore various red dresses.

Another woman, Campbell, came on screen. Also white, brunette, she drove a white Urraco. White cars are not my preference, so it couldn’t be me, but she weirdly resembled me — she could be Roger Moore’s sister. Like the other, I witnessed her doing various activies always dressed in white but not always a dress. All of it was weirdly familiar, as if another person had been plugged into my life. These were dream memories, not RL memories.

Then I appeared in a dark gray Lamborghini Urraco, the car dream me drove. Okay, that is me, I was confident. But how could all of these be me when two are female? It has to be more about us than the cars. But the memories being shown were familiar. While I watched, I thought, the car represents my body. Why different colors, then? To present different aspects of myself? Sounded feasible but needed more research.

Stopping the video, I moved over to my desk and laptop, and searched for colors in dreams. A man came to the office door and said, “You need to finish the review. We have good things planned for you but you need to know yourself before we can go forward.”

I replied, “That sounds very new age-y.”

The man was short, white, black hat, black suit. “Finish your review. Get on it.”

I felt impelled to do as he said and rose, moving around the desk to continue.

Dream end.

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Back to Normal Dreams

Yes, dreams were no longer short, sharp, and clear last night. Nor were they elaborate productions. Last night’s dominant dream — the one most remembered — was about command posts were I’d worked. I was in the military, the U.S. Air Force, for over twenty years. Worked in command and control. Fighter aircraft, nukes, space operations, military airlift, air training, special ops. Permanent and temporary command posts were worked in Asia, the far east, United States, Europe, and Africa.

I visited several of them as a young man in last night’s dream. While visiting military sites, I was dressed in civvies. Often accompanied by people who worked for me in different places (including some people who have passed away), I went around to those command posts, remembering what they were, discovering what they now were, dream-wise. Don’t know what they’re really like. Haven’t been to a command post since I retired.

It seemed like the dream was hammering the point, hey, things have changed. Forget the past. Move forward. A sledge hammer was being used to slam down roofing nails. I said to my dream psyche, yes, I get it, which seemed to satisfy it. Then, in my dream, I went to bed, and to sleep, only to then wake up in real life, a trippy transition.

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The Measurements Dream

It was a weird shopping dream. A bunch of other things had happened where I was going around shopping but then I came to this point. I was helping people shop. Roped into it because I was there and knew what was going on, I was friendly and upbeat about helping others, eager to do it because they were grateful for the assistance. But then I encountered a trio. It seemed like a husband, wife, and older child from what I saw, but that’s a guess. White, all were overweight. I was helping them get three ounces of the product that they wanted. Measuring it out, I handed the white bag to them. “What’s this?” the man asked. “We wanted three ounces,” the woman said while the child hovered sullenly behind them.

I was confused because this was three ounces. I showed them the scale and measurement with the stuff on it. “That’s three ounces. That’s what you asked for.”

The woman smirked. “We want three ounces.”

Her smirk irritated me. “This is three ounces. Look.” I pointed at the scale. The line for help was piling up. “That says three ounces.”

The man and woman peered at it. “Where?” he asked.

I pointed again, moving my finger to emphasize where it said three ounces. “There. That says three ounces. You said you wanted three ounces. This is three ounces.”

The woman smirked. “We. Want. THREE. Ounces.”

WTF? Seriously. Looking back on the dream, it went on with more of the same. My frustration kept rising. With crowd noise growing from impatient people waiting behhind them, I was finally rid of the people only for them to return a few minutes later. Flummoxing me more, they insisted they hadn’t been there yet. “We want three ounces,” the man said. The short woman was holding the white bag I’d given them before. Their listless boy hovered beside her.

I asked, “Do you want three more ounces?” They gazed at me like stupefied cows, so I said, “Because I already gave you three ounces.” I pointed at the white bag in the woman’s hand. She looked at it like she’d never seen it before. “Isn’t that what’s in that bag?”

She said, “We want three ounces.”

I gave up. Just walked away. People called after me but I kept going with the thought, there’s somewhere else that I need to be.

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The Fake Military Dream

I dreamed now that I wasn’t in the military, but others were pretending to be in the military. 

My wife and I were at a social gathering. Packed and chaotic, it seemed so odd. Cakes were being served. People were drinking coffee and lemonade. Nobody was in a uniform but a man who claimed he was a colonel was demanding subservience and respect because he was the ranking officer. He was an old and bent, gray fellow. We were to obey every order, even though these orders were nonsensical. Obeying him and doing as he told was part of the social gathering. Part of it, as example, was that we, the fake military, stood at attention in rank and file, making fake weapons out of paper. I told my wife, “This is ridiculous. Why are we doing this?” I was ready to step out of line and walk away.

She replied, “Shhh. Just go along with it.”

Her response annoyed me as much as doing the fake crap, but I was doing this for her. The fake weapon-making finally ended, though. Relief flooded me. Walking away, I said, “Thank God.” But no, more crap was to come. The colonel was to give me a haircut.

I wasn’t willing to go along with that. One, I didn’t need a haircut. Two, I wasn’t going to get a haircut just because of some set of tradition, fake rules, or crazy personalities. I didn’t quite grasp why my wife and I were going through this mess of socializing and obedience, and I became more irritated and impatient by the minute.

But I acquiesced, for my wife. I was led to a small, crowded cubbyhole. Sitting in the worn, red-leather barber chair, I closed my eyes as the fake colonel cut my hair and talked to me. I understood little of what he said. First, he had an unusual accent. Second, he spoke an erratic syntax. His statements seemed unconcerned with whatever had been previously said.

The haircut was fast. He barely did anything. Eyes still closed, I attempted to get out of the chair. I didn’t realize that I’d been belted into it, and that a restraining arm was down over my waist. Hitting them, I stumbled to one side.

I caught myself without falling. The colonel said, “What are you doing? Why did you get out of the chair?”

I answered, “Because I wanted out of the chair.”

I’d briefly opened my eyes to see what had happened, and then closed them again. The colonel said, “The customer doesn’t decide when to get out of the chair. I tell you when to get out of the chair.”

“I don’t agree with that,” I replied. “I wanted out of the chair, so I did it.” Then I added, lying, “Because I was dizzy, and I wanted to stand up.”

My wife then arrived, asking what’d happened. I told her about it, including the lie that I’d felt dizzy and left the chair to feel better. I kept my eyes closed as I talked to her.

Then I said, “I lied. I was’t dizzy. I wanted out of that chair.” I immediately felt better.

The colonel asked for payment. Opening my eyes and looking around, I saw the crap around me and shook my head. My eyes were open. I was done there. It was time to go, and that’s what I told my wife.

The dream ended.

 

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Sunday’s Theme Music

I was streaming this song this morning as I walked through the damp early day. Weather, like many things in life, is on a spectrum of several sliding scales. Weak sunshine was trying to warm us up but had a long way to go, and the wind was being coy about which way it’d blow.

Love and relationships are other spectrums of existence. When you meet someone who attracts you sexually or stimulates you mentally, where will it go? It’s not usually a steady movement. Sometimes it all works, and it comes together, and then…their spectrum shifts. Suddenly, you find that they’re no longer in love with you. They’re having an affair. Although they haven’t told you, they’re moving on.

And you find it out in an unplanned way that sears your heart and numbs your senses.

This song tells a story of one such slide along the spectrum, the part of the spectrum after discovering the betrayal, the part where you’re trying to find a way to go on.

Dean Lewis, “Be Alright”, 2018.

 

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A Dream of Departure

Man, were we busy. People were returning from other assignments, and we were all going in new directions. I knew them all, co-workers, comrades, friends. Our energy was high. My wife was busy with a special task but was becoming frustrated with her role and how others regarded her.

Our commander got up on a table to address us. He began lamely. Not getting the response he expected, he went in a new direction and then told us he’d talk to us later. We resumed our preparations.

I was happy and excited, anticipating new directions. “We need to celebrate,” someone said. “Yes,” I agreed. “We should get beer,” another said.

“I can make beer,” I announced. As I did, I went back to a clear plastic bag. Dry yellow foam filled it. Holding it up, I said, “This is beer.” The bag was as light as cotton candy. “You just need to add water.” Others were doubtful and amazed, but I was undaunted, joking with them about the brew that would result.

The bag was not closed. Tilting to one side as I pressed forward, much of the yellow foam fell out. I remained undaunted and in a humorous frame. Still talking and laughing, I began scooping up the foam and shoving it back into the bag. Another came to help, holding the bag open for me. We found this very funny.

We crossed the gathering and paused. My wife intercepted me. She was angry. “Who spilled the water?” she demanded, pointing. It took several repetitions before we grasped her question and where the water had been spilled. It wasn’t much and didn’t matter to me or the others. This irritated my wife, who stormed off in dismay. Shrugging it off, the rest of us continued to prepare to party and depart.

Afterwards, my wife and I walked along a sidewalk. Everyone was moving their possessions from their homes. Movers were going to some houses. We waved at folks that we knew but then started finding some possessions discarded along the walk. We didn’t think that stuff was supposed to be there. Beginning to pick up the first pieces, we quickly discovered a larger cache of personal, prized possessions. We were stunned. The quantity was too large for us to do anything except heap it. The mystery of how it all came to be there consumer our attention.

While we did that, one of the people came along. Recognizing some of the stuff as hers, we pointed things out to her. “I don’t care,” she said. “They can do what they want with them. I’m through with it. I’m going on.”

They settled the question in my mind. If it didn’t matter to the owner, why should it matter to me?

So much depends upon how something is regarded.

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