Tag: worries

Last Night’s Competitive Dream

Briefly, in last night’s dream, I was barefoot, but also in a blue uniform. I wouldn’t describe it as a military not a sports uniform. I thought it was a uniform because I wasn’t alone in the dream, and we were all wearing the same outfit. They didn’t numbers, ranks, or anything that distinguished one of us from another.

We were outside on lush fields of cut, dark green grass. To one side was a white building. I thought of school when I saw the whole thing, but I don’t know what it was.

I couldn’t say how many were in the fields in blue uniforms, but it seemed like a large number. Among us were people in the same uniform monitoring activities. The main activity was for us to run. We would run for about eight yards as fast as we could. As far as I could tell, no one was testing us. Someone would shout, “Run,” and we would all complete an eight yard dash. Most of us would laugh after we did it. It seemed like a lark.

This went on for a bit. I felt confused but not winded. Others were starting to complain. One observer, a black man in a blue uniform strolled past me and said, “Run.” I did. “Again,” he said. I did. “Again,” he said, circling me, saying, “Again,” after I did it.

A peer came out, a black youth in a blue uniform, but he was holding shoes. “What are you doing?” he said to me.

“Running.”

“Why? Are you practicing?”

I shook my head but didn’t say anything because I was being told, “Run,” again. I was bothered, though. Why was I alone being told to run?

The youth walked on. Alone with the observer, I asked, “Why are you having me do this?”

He said, “You’re doing more than the others but you’re not using the potential that I think you have, so I’m going to push you to do more.”

The dream ended. 

A few things struck me as I thought of the dream while doing my morning activities. While I was alone running as directed, I felt conspicuous, because I was the only one the observer was telling to run, so I was the only one now running. That made me stand out, and brought attention to me. I don’t like getting attention. The whole idea of being the center of attention makes me nervous and anxious. But if I’m going to achieve my potential, I’ll need to run alone, and accept getting attention.

I wondered, though. We were only running eight yards. I thought, does that mean it’s a shorter distance than I realized? I also thought, eight is so often featured in my dreams. Then, more whimsically, I thought, I’m only going eight yards, but do I need to go the whole nine yards?

Dreams, always giving me more to think about.

 

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A Dream Pastiche

To begin, car and truck exhaust mixes with light snow flurries in a hilly town. Slurry covers broken asphalt. Wooden utility poles leaning at crazy angles hold up sagging lines. Snow and ice weigh down the lines. A maroon Honda Prelude, rusty and missing a door, with a broken tail light and dented sides, is trying to navigate a turn through the slush and go up a small hill when the engine stumbles and dies in a cloud of blue smoke. People stumble out of the car to help push it up the hill and out of the road. I run over and help, putting hands on the cold, wet trunk lid, and push, slipping and sliding on the broken, icy asphalt road. We do it. A small cheer goes up.

I know the people in the car. I wish I could help them more but I have problems, and wave good-bye, rushing on to school. The classroom is packed. I’m in fifth grade. The teacher explains an assignment. The students will be divided into teams. Each team will be given an article. They’ll read it as individuals, discuss it in a group, and then write individual essays about the article. Then she singles me out to tell me that she has a special essay for me, and I will work alone. My reading assignment is denser and longer than the others. I feel isolated and confused.

Taking the article with me, I head to my work. Two concrete buildings make up a small compound. I live there with others. Most are young, but a few are older than me, but I’m in charge. A storm is coming, but we also worry about attack. I explain that we have to secure everything outside so it won’t blow away, but also so we’ll be safe inside. I put Randy in charge of the rest to do this. Randy is upset because he doesn’t think others are contributing. I have to talk it through with him. Meanwhile, he and his team are doing a terrific job of moving things to make us safe and boarding up the place. I just need to keep encouraging him.

I discover a problem with our plan. The main room has a big window that overlooks the sea. It’s calm but I worry about that window. The rest is all covered, but all someone would need to do is circle the building. They’d discover that window and smash it in.

Options are discussed, decisions are made. Some of which we’ve done must be undone. Showing me what must be undone, Randy shows what they’ve done. I’m impressed, but I also spot weaknesses and explain that to them. They begin the re-work.

Going to the second building, I discover an old man living in the cluttered, windowless back room. The room reminds me of part of an old gas station. The old man is a friend and has a cat. I help him lock the cat up, but the cat is trying hard to get back out. We discuss papers that need to be read and written. Then I make sure he’ll be okay for the coming storm.

Returning to the first building, I check on food and supplies. We’ve done everything that we can, but anxiety that we’re not ready nags me. I can’t think of what else we can do. Feeling helpless, I try to think up answers but I don’t know the questions and issues.

I’m left waiting.

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The Ambivalence

Once again, I’m on the ambivalence train. This weather, like spring, is lovely. Light showers are falling. It was fifty-four degrees outside at midnight. Since then, it’s dropped to fifty, unseasonable weather, but pleasant.

It’s a helluva lot better than Europe and eastern North America are enduring, with cyclone bombs, flooding, and terribly cold temperatures. Comparing our situation with theirs, I believe I’m much happier and better off.

But looking forward to the summer, worry swells. If it’s this dry and warm now, the models predict we’re going to be hot and dry.

Hence, ambivalence about enjoying this southern Oregon weather. Maybe I should play ignorant and just enjoy the now. Conversely, I can be a hopeful optimist, and think, maybe we’ll have a rainy year, pleasant temperatures, and no wildfires.

A guy can dream.

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Three Minds

He was of three minds about what to do, one each from the past, present, and future. All asserted their opinions and wouldn’t back down, paralyzing him with indecision, and so, he did nothing.

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Unanswered

She’s a Luddite, no doubt. Never had a computer or a personal email account. She’d had the one when she’d worked, in email’s early days. Didn’t have a cellphone and was only vaguely aware of selfies, and she didn’t have a television.

But she did have a P.O.T. – a plain old telephone – and an answering machine. When they called, though, it ringed without switching over. One day. Two. Twice on that second day, once each in the morning and afternoon, and then again twice on the morning of the third day. Official worry had launched by then. That. Was not. Like her.

Nerves coiling into a rat’s nest, they went to her house. Her car was there. The house looked normal. Sunning cats watched their investigation with narrow eyes, their ears pricked forward to hear their soft voices. Soft voices were needed in a moment like this, when you don’t know what you’ll find.

No one answered their knock.

They walked around the house. She wasn’t in the yard working, or in the shed. They checked the shed…in case.

The cats looked okay. They discussed it. How the cats looked meant nothing. A window was open for the cats to come and go. They could see a feeder half-filled with kibble inside, and a water bowl.

She kept her doors unlocked. That’s how she was. He remembered her answer to his amazement about how she lived. She said, scoffing, “I don’t think I remember where the house keys are.” They thought she was joking, but she said she wasn’t. Remembering that she didn’t lock her doors didn’t make them feel any better about the lack of connections to her.

Knocking again, they opened the door and called her name.

No reply.

Entering, they crept around, invaders of a friendly territory. It reminded him of entering a church when nothing was scheduled. It was a clean house, but not organized. That wasn’t a concern. They had other concerns, like bodies.

No bodies were on the floor. No blood. No signs of fights or struggles, as they’d seen in movies and television shows. They called her again, in bolder voices. The kitchen was clean. There was food on the refrigerator. The dishes were done. Nothing was in the sink.

They looked in all the rooms. No one was found. He went to her rotary Trimline phone and picked it up. He heard a dial tone. The answering machine was beside the phone. A red light showed it had power. Blinking showed it had messages. Maybe it was full.

Further walking around did nothing but reinforce the fact that they’d walked into another’s house without an invitation. “Let’s leave her a note,” he said. “Tell her we called and came by, and that her answering machine doesn’t seem to be working.”

They wrote the note, and left after two more minutes. They’d allowed that time in case she was out somewhere. She could return at any moment.

They closed the door behind them, and looked around again, to see what they’d missed. The sunning cats watched, and wondered who they were.

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