A Flood Dream

A short dream, but with impact. Boxes of food were being handed out. Large boxes but not of a uniform size. Mostly brown. Although the boxes didn’t have lids, I don’t know what food was inside them.

Like others, I hurried to get a box of food. That required me to go onto a cement portico surrounded by shadowy white colonnades. The boxes were happily given out and equally happily received. After getting one box, it was suggested that I go back and try to get another one. When I went back, the person giving them out recognized me. He said, “I wouldn’t be going for these boxes, I’d be going for something to survive the flood.”

I didn’t know what flood he talked about. I accepted the box and returned to the others, puzzling over what he’d said. I told them. We debated what he meant, and how the boxes might be different, if they’re for a flood. I decided that I’d get boxes to survive a flood, just be on the safe side and went back to the issuing area. Dark brown flood waters were already to my knees at that point. No more boxes were being handed out. The people giving them out were gone.

A Bewildering Dream

My dream began with me searching for things, ordinary things, like canned food. The setting for it was nothing sinister or confusing. It seemed like I was in a pristine housing suburb.

Others began explaining to me that ordinary things weren’t available. Why not? Because of the invasion.

“The what?”

It had to be explained to me that aliens had invaded. Further, everyone was scavenging for supplies because everything was disappearing. I don’t know where I’d been when all of this had happened, but shrugged that off.

While accepting their explanation, I suggested we should still search for food and supplies that could help us. I was confident that we could find things even though everyone else was saying, no, everything is gone.

I couldn’t believe it. There’d been a war here, an invasion? There was no evidence of it. Although I didn’t see many people — I was told that they were all in hiding — nothing was damaged. It was a lovely day, rich with sunshine and warm, fresh air. With so many abandoned houses, I was sure that we could find food and supplies. I coerced a few people into helping me.

Few supplies were to be found, though. I made people take whatever meager stuff we did find, insisting that we could find uses for them. Everyone was downcast and pessimistic; I was being upbeat.

Screams arose. The aliens were coming. People began running in fear. “I see you,” I heard a loud voice.

“Who was that?”

That was the alien giant.

I wanted to see him. He arose above houses, a huge Humpty-dumpty looking balloon. This was the alien threat? “Yes. Hide,” others answered.

Dubious, I took cover with others, ending up in an office building. Continuing to look for supplies, I discovered other people. They’d set up secret camps in abandoned offices and suites. They didn’t want to let me and my group in. “Go away. There’s no room.”

Then, “Aliens are coming.” As that alarm spread, the people in the camps blamed me. “They followed you. You revealed our position. Now we need to find somewhere new.”

Everyone started running up and down the hallways and steps. I remained confused. Who was the alien coming? Humpty-dumpty? He was too big.

“No, the other aliens.”

What? I had to see them, so I waited, lurking by a corner. They entered the hall, angular, tall, and gray, marching two by two.

Seeing them and now knowing more of the threat, I took off, seeking security. Others were still with me. I continued discovering other enclaves of people hiding. Nobody wanted to help anyone else. It dismayed me.

The gray aliens chased us outside where Humpty-dumpty called, “I see you. I’m coming to get you.” We could see him bobbing above the buildings like a giant balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Everyone scattered. There was just me and a red-headed woman now. As we talked about where we could go — she insisted that we couldn’t stay there, but I thought we could find a safe place and start a refugee camp and band together — aircraft flow over.

The alarm went up. Those were alien aircraft. They began shooting people on the ground with red rays that disintegrated them. Everyone scattered anew.

I ended up in a shopping mall, and then a gym. Everywhere I went, the warning was giving that the aliens had entered. Run! Run! People blamed me for being followed.

The woman and I ended up outside. We were running up a lush valley of tall, deep green grass. A stream ran through the valley. Above was the white cement infrastructure of a highway bridge. Others had camped out under the bridge and had fires going.

I was looking ahead, trying to learn where to go. As that happened, like it was taking place on a television screen, and I could see it all, two men ran up and grabbed the woman behind me. I didn’t know. I kept walking. Hand over her mouth, they dragged her away, then leaped onto horses and rode away. That’s when I turned around and realized that she’d been taken.

I was shocked, and I was alone. Going forward to what I thought was safety, a man came out. Half-naked, white, he had a muscular torso and shoulders. His disheveled hair was long and brown.

I said, “They took my friend.” I wanted to go back for her.

He gestured with his hand for me to follow him. I thought for a moment that he was a centaur. Then I realized that he was. As he walked, I followed. I realized that he was going to explain everything and help me.

The dream ended.


The Coronado

I, Juancho, a mere bureaucrat, but essential to the mission, I assure you, was worried. Even I knew that the frying pan was gone and we were now facing a danger of being incinerated by growing flames.

Commander Alves is a fine person and a good commander. I have great confidence in her, and was pleased to be selected for the Coronado’s first mission on Feymann. (Her second, the snide Lieutenant Commander Cark, is not viewed with the same joy, and I did not look forward to this situation now with him onboard.) However, I doubted Commander Alves’ optimism and reassurances. “That may not be the Beagle that exploded over Feynmann,” she told us. She was being hopeful, I know, but each consumed tequila and coke that I consumed convinced me that the end was closer than we thought.

Let us review. We’re on the Coronado. It’s a fine vessel, new, as well-built as human robots can conceive and execute. We don’t lack for protection or comfort. Fully armored, each of the thirty of us onboard have private quarters. They’re not as large nor luxurious as those we enjoyed upon the Beagle. Of course not. The Beagle quarters were permanent. These quarters are temporary, for the Coronado is an explorer. (I don’t understand why they named the ship after a luxury resort chain, but that’s another debate.)

That is the difficulty with surviving on the Coronado. It is an explorer vessel. Our mission on Feynmann’s surface was to be for twenty-one day’s duration. We have food for a little longer, and fuel, and the life-support systems should not be troubled, if all works well. But, that is the but in my drink. They always tell us that we must be prepared for failure, and then prepare for our preparations to survive failure to fail as well. This situation was the prime example of that maxim.

Should anything fail on the Coronado, we expected backup and support from the Beagle. If one of us became gravely ill or injured, we would be lifted to the Beagle. In the end, our tunnel on the Coronado was twenty-one days long, and the light on the end was the Beagle.

We would not survive, no, I was thinking. The question was more about how agonizing our deaths would be, and whether suicide or murder were better options.

Do I shock you? Those were the choices for each of us, as I viewed it. Suicide didn’t appeal to me but waiting for rescue against small odds was less appealing. Murdering others would extend my food supply. Maybe that would provide a chance for rescue, but I would then need to explain the others’ deaths.

That might be difficult, given our personal recording devices. However, as we’ve all been taught since childhood, for every system, there is a vulnerability, and the means to exploit it.

If I could learn that vulnerability and exploit, I, Juancho, could develop a plan.




I dreamed three dreams last night. There were repeats of dreams I’ve dreamed before. Like watching a movie more often, more details have developed, or are noticed and retained.

The dreams involve me to different degrees. I’m heavily involved in the first dream, less involved in the second one, and I’m almost phased out wholly by the third. The third dream is mostly about black women getting on an aircraft. The aircraft is a C-5 Galaxy. They’re happy and excited about a journey they’re about to take. I’m happy and excited for them, too, but most of my involvement is listening to them and seeing close-up shots of all those happy people going on a journey.

The first one, that so involved me, was mostly adventure. About me and a group escaping, and then exploring, the dream begins after the escape. I don’t know what we’re escaping. The group is small. We find a cold, icy place to stay until we’re rescued. Once we’re in that place, we discover there are items left behind, and that we’re in what was once a military post. Then we learn the post isn’t entirely abandoned. Little by little, we slip in and integrate, making use of things we see the military using. The military isn’t malicious or anything; they’re simply there, going about their business as it’s been on so many military bases I visited.

No family was in the dream. So it goes. I never feel threatened or frightened in the dream. I’m a little wary initially but that changes quickly as I relax and gain confidence. By the end, when I’m using the military’s stuff, part of them but not one of them, I’m a confident leader.

The second dream is a lame sequel to the first, almost like a set-up to the third. There’s abstract discussions about what happened – “We survived, we found this place, now we can help others” – and sort of a montage of things like that being done. Then, it’s on to the third dream.

I write about the dreams to understand them. Frankly, I don’t. They seem hopeful but beyond that, I can sketch any number of meanings to them. All those meetings would have strength, weakness, logic and flaws to my interpretations. I sometimes think I should devote more time to understanding them but I see that as a major investment in time. I like to guard my time and routines.

Which brings me around to my conclusion. Do my dreams need to have significance, meanings, or portends to other matters? Perhaps it’s sufficient to accept, I dreamed. My mind has cleared some clutter from my thinking. Maybe it’s like organizing the attic; “Oh, here we have some leftover stuff. Where should we put it?” “Stick it in a dream.” “Oh, okay.”

It’s odder and a little more intriguing that I have repeat dreams. Do I have some frozen synapses causing the same images, sounds, ideas and stories to circulate through my mind? Such thoughts trigger comparisons to similarities in my writing. I often address time, memory, reality, technology and alienation in my fiction writing, whether it’s the mystery series or the science-fiction novels.

This leads to insights and suspicions. Perhaps I need more outside input and stimulus. I’m in ruts of living and writing, constrained by others’ health issues, concerns and worries, and have been for some time. Perhaps my dreams are a reflection of my ‘real’ situation, and that’s why they’re repeating, and why I’m so little involved. I’m often a spectator within my own life, another rider on the train.

Not too long ago, I read an article about a woman who often fantasizes during the day. Her pattern of thought developed when she was a child but she realized she continued them as an adult, and that they were connected to regular activities. She recognized that when she does certain activities, she likewise engages in fantasies, and they’re often the same or similar fantasies.

Becoming more interested in what she was doing and why, she searched for evidence that others were doing something like this, and found she wasn’t alone in this habit.

Well, I could have told her that; I also do this.

At first, this behavior was helpful in falling asleep. I engage it and knew it as a way to shut off my brain so I could sleep and rest. Later, I extended it and began engaging to turn off my brain from other issues. I’ve always recognized it as a coping practice to de-stress, but they’re also a way to engage my subconscious mind to think, develop solutions and ideas. These fantasies are harmless, about designing survival places, trains or ships, but I can see parallels to my dreams, and to my fiction writing practices.

In a curious way, I begin to view myself as a pie. Then we can slice me up into my various activities and realms – writing, sleeping and dreaming, walking and living, interacting with others. When I begin doing that, I can see how the whole fits together in a larger pattern. I can see my limitations and frustrations, and how they manifest themselves through fiction writing, daytime activity fantasies, and yes, nocturnal dreams. I can see how other dreams were wish-fulfillment that I matter more than I do, that I have a starring role in something, somewhere, that I am not just another blink of consciousness among the trillions of blinks on Earth.

For better or worse, the dreams are part of the whole necessary to complete me. That isn’t a permanent or complete answer, nor even a deep insight. It’s just another glimpse of an entity and a life.

It just happens to be a very personal view.


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