854 Cars Dream

One of the weirder dreams experienced last week stayed with me. This was from last Wednesday.

I’d entered a large building on some business. I was in a hurry and a little annoyed when someone hailed me. The young man in a suit confirmed my identity, increasing my annoyance, and then said, “I wanted to ensure that you knew your cars were here.”

People hurried around us. “What cars?” I asked. Given with great impatience, I waited for the answer so that I could explain that I’d flown in. It also seemed odd that he said ‘cars’ instead of ‘car’. On the other hand, maybe someone had provided me a rental.

“Your cars,” the young man replied, as if that explained anything.

I told him that explained nothing.

He looked at me like trees were growing out the sides of my head. “Your cars,” he responded and then spit out with haste, “Your cars were shipped here.” He spoke like he didn’t believe that I didn’t know this. “You have eight hundred and fifty-four cars.”

I repeated that number back to him. It was a ridiculous number. When he confirmed it, my mind looked for explanations and figured, oh, he means model cars or Matchbox cars or toy cars, something like that. Smiling, I asked, “Where are they?” I’d see them and then I would pursue understanding of how I’d come to have eight hundred and fifty-four cars. Someone was behind this, doing it as a joke. “Can you take me to them?”

Joy lit the young man’s expression. “Yes, sir, right this way, sir.”

We were in one of those convention centers attached to hotels, or the other way around, and had to cross a wide space. We entered a garage filled with cars and stopped. I waited.

“There are your cars,” the young guy said.



I knew the guy meant all those cars in that garage. My vision roamed. Chevies. Ferraris. Fords. Mazdas. Mercedes. Jaguars. Porsches. A Jeep.

The guy asked, “Is everything alright, sir?”

I explained that I was surprised. I didn’t think these cars were mine. I thought there was a mistake. The other kept insisting, these are your cars, you are the right person and explained that they’d gone through great lengths to verify who I was. “Who did that? Who is they?” I naturally asked. No coherent answer was given.

The young man and I walked among the rows of cars. I verified, eight hundred and fifty-four. He confirmed that and then went on, cataloging the cars’ abilities, amusing me. He said, “You have fast cars and very fast cars, new cars, and old cars.” He was pointing at cars as he spoke and I was turning, gawking at the collection, stunned beyond further thought. Many famous and rare models were present. I eyed pretty green Mustangs that I was sure were in movies, silver Ferraris, and red Ferraris, blue Porsches, and a yellow Jeep. A low and wide Lamborghini and a stately, dark Rolls Royce. Old cars, new cars. All were in great shape.

The dream ended with me standing in the garage wondering, where did I get all of these cars and what was I going to do with them?

Reading this after capturing it all doesn’t give insight into how rapidly this unfolded. The dream was a torrent. I guess that’s the mind, rationalizing explanations of the scenes and images, trying to develop something cogent, and failing. Cheers

A Sick Dream

First, I was introduced to a security database. It was locked up in a yellow train car that was permanently parked on railroad tracks beside another rail car, red, that was a cafe or restaurant. After being shown it, I was taken to where I lived. I’d be working out of my house. It was an apartment or condo on a plaza’s ground floor. The living room had a large window. From it, I could see the yellow car which held the security database. That pleased me.

My wife had gone out. I was feeling sick. The bed was right off the living room in the house’s front. I had a cold, and my vision was teary and blurry. I also had seven cats. “ALF”, the ‘alien life form’ from the U.S. sitcom shown for several years in the late 1980s, a show I was aware of but rarely if ever watched, was present to help take care of the cats. One cat was sick; I told ALF to give it a shot. He fired buckshot at the cats, and then told me, “I think we had some miscommunication.”

My wife arrived home. I told her I was sick and noticed she was, too, but with milder symptoms, and then told her what ALF had done. My illness seemed to be worsening. Two of my wife’s friends arrived. They sat down to have coffee and tea and chat while I climbed onto the bed to try to rest. I didn’t have any blankets or sheets and kept shifting positions, trying to be comfortable. One of her friends asked my wife, “What’s wrong with him?” My wife replied, “Oh, he’s just sick.”

Dream end.

The Secret Magazines Dream

I was in my mid-forties. My wife and I had decided to clean out and organize a home office space. It seemed to be a semi-detached garage. The cinder-brick walls were pale yellow, a broken concrete and dirt floor was underfoot, and there were several large windows.

We’d lived in this place for a while, but several new people had moved in, and we were becoming acquainted with other neighbors. The office had a very large bathroom, also painted yellow, with a single naked bulb hanging down in the middle. I was in there with six neighbors, all men, with the door shut, discussing people we knew in common. One very tall man — I came up to his chest — said, “Hey, do you know Hylton?” I gleefully replied, “I know Hylton, really tall guy, right?”

I asked everyone if they would leave the bathroom, questioning why we were all in there. After that, I returned to the office. The office had a pale-yellow desk and matching file cabinets and printer stand. They could have been painted from the same can of paint as the walls. I began emptying all the drawers. I was hurrying because I’d hidden Playboy Magazines from my wife in some of the drawers. I didn’t want her to find them. After emptying the drawers, I frantically raced around, trying to find a new place to hide them. What to do! What to do! I could hear her talking in the other room.

She came in. I shoved the magazines into a box and shoved it under the desk. She said, “Oh, you’ve already emptied all the drawers. Good. Let’s go through everything and decide what to keep and throw away.”

I said, “I already did that. We just need to put things away. I can do that by myself. You can go do other things.”

But she disagreed, insistently she was staying there.

A man arrived in the garage next to the office. White, in his mid-forties, he had curly coal-black hair with a matching thick beard and was wearing a blue ball cap and matching overalls. I know this because I could see him over like a sort of divider. I asked, “Who are you?”

My wife said, “This is so and so. I hired him to help us clean and organize.”

I replied, “I have this handled. We don’t need any help.”

But she ignored me, going into the garage area with the man to talk about what he could do to help.

Okay, she was out the room. I resumed my attempt to hide my magazines. There were only four, so I thought it shouldn’t be hard. Then I thought, I haven’t looked at these in years, why do I want to keep them? I also questioned, why should I have to hide them from her? But I knew the reason was that she hated Playboy because of how it sexualized and objectified women.

I quit trying to hide them. My wife entered, saw the magazines, and threw a fit. I told her I was throwing them away, but she ranted about me having them and hiding them. Shrugging that off, I went outside to check on the cats. I had two young ones and wanted to ensure they were okay. I heard a dog barking. Looking over a hedge down into the neighbor’s yard, I saw a large German Shepherd running around. Well, I needed to keep the cats in, then!

I decided to cross the street to get my mail. The street was just a narrow dirt lane but my mailbox was on the other side. A middle-aged white woman was coming down the street on a blue bicycle. I waited for her to go by, but she just drew up and stopped right before reaching me. I was incredulous; she was blocking traffic, but seemed totally indifferent. After a moment, she shifted her bike to go to the mailboxes, the same ones where I was going. A large gray truck was waiting for her to go by, and several other people were waiting, too. But she just did what she wanted, oblivious to what was going on around her. Indignant, I crossed the street to the mailbox. As I reached the other side, she pedaled away.

Dream end.

Strange Dream

I don’t know what I was doing, nor where I was. Normal, so far…

An abrupt bright yellow light blinded me for an instant. After covering my eyes, I bent and turned. After a few more seconds I looked up. A yellow ball, bright as the sun, about the size of a volleyball, was floating around me.

I didn’t try to touch it. As I wondered WTH, I spotted another ball. This one was the same size and a dull but still bright red. The two, I gathered, orbited around my head about a yard away from it, parallel to one another. Utter darkness reigned beyond them.

A discussion began where I heard male voices arguing about these two balls: were they new elements of me, or outside forces attempting to influence me? The words warbled in and out, making it a struggle to follow the debate. I was also distracted by the debate’s nature, that there could be a new me, or part of me gaining an attachment that was someone else, or something else. Also, did this apply to both of these orbiting spheres?

Those questions didn’t find answers in the dream because the orbits suddenly dwindled. The red and yellow each flared and crashed into me, startling me awake.

The Teams Dream

I was a young man — again — for this dream, in my late teens or early twenties. I was with a woman at the beginning, in a suburban setting of houses, streets, and parks. About my age, she seemed like a relative stranger. We were just being informed by a tall pale woman that we’d been selected for a team. That pleased us both. We were selected for different teams, which made us laugh. Each team had a uniform and marker. My uniform was black and yellow like a bee. Her uniform was something like pink and black. Others were white and black, and light blue and black.

We readily grasped the rules although it’s nothing that I can recount. Each morning, we showed up and raced to procure a specific object, like spoons or fish, or to recruit people by tagging them with your marker, according to instructions provided by the tall, ball woman. My marker was black and fuzzy. I could throw it at people and make it stick, sometimes throwing curve balls to make this happen, or from extreme distances, astonishing myself and others. Each day became a fun, constant race to get this done, and then get back to our homes. My friend and I taunted one another in a good-natured way throughout the event, along the lines, “I’m going to win today,” and “See you at the finish line, loser.”

We found ourselves in small single-winged prop planes. I began trying to drop my marker onto people below, but the marker was turning into fish as it hit them. I’d tell them, as they picked up the fish and looked up at me in the plane, “That’s supposed to be a marker.” They didn’t understand that any better than a fish hitting them.

We ended up at the ocean, in waves. I ran out through the surf and then turned and entered a cove. At that point, I realized, I’d gone the wrong way. That put me way behind.

I’ve lost, I realized, then decided, I need to start again.

The Talking Cat Dream

It is mostly such a mundane dream. My wife and I are outside our home. We’re youngish, roaming about in our middle years. This is not the house we live in, nor a place we’ve ever lived in, but easily recognized as a standard, pleasant American middle class dream place, part of a planned development, a few stories tall, with a yard and neighbors in like houses. Not quite homes cut from the same design, but homogenized with individual flares and nuances. Our home is stucco and off-white.

As I say, we were outside, in sunny weather, in the backyard. Our cats walk about, being cats. One began scratching his claws on a headboard. “No,” I chase him away, telling my wife, “Don’t let him scratch this.” I set about repairing it. Adding a strip of wire grid that will keep murder mittens from scarring the wood. I pursue this past time for a period. It’s more tedious than I expected.

Railroad tracks are laid not far from our backyard. I’m up in the house, on the second floor, looking down when a train comes by. It’s an old-fashioned steam locomotive. I can see into the neighbor’s backyard on the right. They have a little train, about knee high, just an engine and coal car, that goes out and greets the train when it passes. I see this several times in the dream and conclude that the neighbors have a motion sensor along the rails. Or maybe they’re just sitting inside, waiting for a train. I never see them, though I know the man is bald, in his late fifties/early sixties, white and wears glasses and flannel shirts.

I’m back in the backyard, working in the bed headboard. It’s an old piece but mass produced, one we purchased from J.C. Penney when we were young, with decoupage flowers.

The cat, a ginger, starts talking to me. His enunciation isn’t very good but it’s clear enough that I know that he’s talking about birds. I snort this away, amused. Cats and birds are like sun and sky. The cat insists, “You have to see these birds, Michael.”

I follow the cat just to appease him. We go down a sloping meadow to a small cottage surrounded by glossy dark green bushes. “There they are,” the cat tells me.

I hear the birds before I see them and know that they’re parrots. Five of them, green, red, blue, and yellow prominent among them, flock toward us, chatting at us while coming up to see what and who we are. I worry about the cat and birds fighting and hurting one another, so I’m wary and cautious. But the birds interest me. I tell the cat that they’re parrots. He’s intrigued. I tell the birds that the animal with me is a cat and that he and I live up the hill from them.

I then see a snake. Don’t know what kind it is. It moves fast and is gone. I worry again: will it bite or harm me, the cat, the birds? I tell the cat, “There’s a snake here, watch it.” He’s immediately interested in trying to find it.

I retreat back up to my house with him, away from the colorful, noisy parrots. Back in my yard, I tell my wife, “There are parrots down there. Come down and see them.”

That’s where it ends.

The Command Complex Dream

I arrived at a command complex. Although ultra futuristic in appearance, full of technology, it was no longer used. I wasn’t associated with it or the military but was familiar with it because of my past, and found it a friendly space. There were no windows and only one door, standard for such places, which were like vaults. Dark blue dominated, with matching carpet and walls. The console positions were all flat black glass with touch screens. As I went about exploring, others entered. I realized that they, like me, were past military. None of us were in the service any longer. We all chatted and introduced ourselves.

We realized some event was taking place. Console positions were powering up on their own, displaying incoming threat analysis. Despite this, we were all in high-spirits. Many people sat at console positions, taking the problem on. As I examined the consoles, I noticed that lines of red and yellow lights circled the positions and were growing brighter. Somehow, I recognized this as a trap. Warning the others, I told them to back off the consoles because something was about to happen. After they all drew back a few feet, the positions opened and emitted spurts of gas. If they’d been where they were, they would have been affected, so my warning saved them. All were grateful.

Things wound down. I got on my hands and knees, checking something out. As I was, I looked up to see a tall, white man enter. I knew he was retired four-star general. He paused as he reached me. I realized I was impeding his way and discovered my legs and feet were somehow under the carpet. As I apologized and laughed, wondering how I’d managed that, he brushed it off as inconsequential and went past. I stood and joined him. We chatted about trivialities and the shook hands and he left.

Others had come in again. One was a black female. I joined her at a table but then was called over by two other women. They were over at a display and had discovered a curtain. It had SLIDELL sewn on in in yellow thread. They asked if that was me. I said that it could be because one, sometimes people used that as a variation of my name, and two, such a misspelling sometimes showed up on correspondence. But, I said, I thought it was doubtful because we were at Bitburg AB in Hahn, Germany, and I’d only been there twice.

I returned to the table in the back and chatted with the seated black woman, sitting beside her as I did. I knew her and we exchanged information about what had been going on in our lives since we’d last seen one another. Others then came in and sat down opposite her. I realized after a moment that people were arriving to pay her homage. I thought it inappropriate to be sitting with her because that was a position of honor and she was the one being honored, but she told me to stay beside her. I did as person after person arrived to tell her how great it had been working with her.

Dream fade out.

Choose Your Color

It was a strange and strong blur of a dream, if that makes sense. In a crowd. Seems like I was going somewhere, following the crowd, like we were heading into a concert or amusement park. Currents of excitement. Streams of chatter and laughter. I’m with others in my party, half-listening but tuned out of them, mostly just there, impatiently queuing, moving forward with halting, shuffling steps. But I don’t mind. I’m going forward. The destination is almost in view ahead. Fresh air. Forested hills and low mountains cup us in a bowl from what I see. Late afternoon blue sky. Darkening but still daylight, cruising toward night. Warm but cooling.

Odd. Saw myself from a perspective down below. Looking up. Perspective focused on me. Following me through the crowd.

Then, interrupted. Discover hands before me. Three? Four? They’re closed into fists. Open. Colors are on the palm. Paper? Red. Blue. Yellow. Purple. Voice says, “Choose your color.”

I’m confused. Try backing away. Wonder where my people are. Who this person is. Why I’m being asked to choose. He persists. I’m blocked in by the crowd. Can’t get away from him. Never see anything of him but his hands holding these colors.

French blue. Sunflower yellow. Apple red. Bright purple. It calls me. I point at it. “Purple.”

Dream end.

The Adulting Dream

I felt like the sole adult in this dream, hence the title. I seemed to be visiting Mom’s home, at least, at first. It’s not like any house that she lived in. She was there, however, along with sisters, wife, and many others.

The first act found me looking around Mom’s home with dismay. She always kept a clean and organized house; this place, although big, didn’t fit that description. As others were talking, I stared at something in an upper corner of the room. It appeared to be a giant cobweb. I called that to Mom’s attention. When she went to clean it, she discovered that it was an old Halloween decoration that she’d put up. She thought it so pretty, she left it up there.

The family, including me, dispersed to do other things. I remained dissatisfied about the state of the house, and walked around looking for impressions to vet my conclusion. It seemed like people weren’t paying attention to it. Crossing into the dining room, I discovered the floor was soaking wet. So was the furniture. In fact, water was splashing on the floor through the open window. I gathered that the sprinkler had been turned out with a window left open, and that the sprinkler had been left running.

I fetched Mom to show her what was going on, telling her to walk into the room so that she could see for herself. When she exclaimed about the floor being wet, I showed her the open window and the sprinkler. Then I told her that this was what I meant by people not paying attention to details, not thinking.

That ended act one. The next act began in the same location, but with new features, people, and furniture. Young adults were being prepped for a test. I had an impression that I was a visiting uncle. I barely knew these four young people. They were experiencing trouble with some of the test prep. Every once in a while, though, they’d break out singing the Queen song, “Somebody to Love”. They did a good job of it, too. But singing that song was disrupting their test prep.

Moving in, I stopped the singing and reminded everyone that they were preparing for a test. Then I pulled out one of the books and put it on a table. The table was one of many, a square made for one person. But the four nieces and nephews pulled up chairs and sat around this one table as I explained what the problem was about and how to solve it. They picked it up quickly and then began studying in earnest. I made the suggestion that since the test was open book, they have the book opened to that particular page, ready. That thought that was a great idea.

I then backed away and observed to one of their parents, “They do know that they need to be at separate desks, don’t they, and have separate books?” After he confirmed that was true, I suggested that they go ahead and set up like that. They did that. I walked to the door to leave. As I did, one nephew began singing “Somebody to Love” again. As the others took up the song, I interrupted and reminded them that they needed to get ready for the test. Then I left.

Outside the place, I passed a small, pale yellow school. About a dozen teenage girls were in front of it, complaining that they were bored and had nothing to do. They seemed about the ages of my nieces and nephews, back getting ready for the test. These two groups should come together, I thought. They’d be good for one another.

I returned to the test area, intent on telling them that. As I came in, one nephew began singing, “Somebody to Love”.

Dream end.

Another Lamborghini Dream

In this dream, I was taking my Lamborghini Huracán (I think it was a Huracán) in to be painted. It’d acquired some chipping in its travels; I wanted it to look better.

I drove it into the shop — a quick drive through highway traffic — and discussed colors with the staff. Each time a color was mentioned, the car changed colors in the dream: lemon yellow, neon green, bright red, hot orange, merlot, white. No, not a white car! I chose to stay with its original electric blue.

The Lambo shop where I’d taken the car tried selling me a mother-in-law seat. I’d never heard of it. They showed me a red one; it looked like a cross between a booster chair for toddlers and a saddle. The explanation was that it fit over the transmission tunnel to add a temporary seat for a third person. Amused, I declined. My MIL (who is deceased) showed up to declare that she would never sit in that.

I checked into a high rise luxury hotel to wait. When I arrived, Alec Baldwin offered me champagne. He wasn’t drinking any. Alec and I walked about, looking out the windows, chatting and joking around. A young server came by with champagne flutes of apple cider on a silver tray. I was interested but he said, “It’s organic.” I replied, “Oh, I always drink organic.” The server answered, “If you always drink organic, you can have some.”

I accepted the organic apple cider. Alec asked, “You always drink organic?” When I answered, “Yes,” he said, “Then give me the champagne, and I’ll drink that.” I agreed. Then, clowning around, he stuck the champagne bottle up his ass, neck first, so it looked like he was blowing a bottle out of his rear. He thought it was hilarious but I thought it was strange.

They announced that my car was ready. I prepared to leave. The dream ended. Yeah, there’s a lot to unpack in this one.

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