Fragments and Art School Buddha

Fragments:  …”putting leave of warranty”… (putting, as in golf)…  Sheri Holt…(Do I know that name?).  She’s the realtor.  I walk around to the front of my house to find cabinets, a lot of them, on the porch.  My husband has ordered the work done, and now they have arrived to be installed.  Now I remember some intricate details inside the house, which seem to go with the cabinets.   I’m walking from the porch when a boy carrying headphones calls out my last name, but I don’t remember what it was.  I take the headphones and put them on to discover it’s my husband on the phone.

2:12am (waking-life time)  I am a man, a policeman.  My chief is blustering at me while we are at the police headquarters in an office.  He is threatening my pension.  I stand up to him and tell him he’ll be sued and that he’ll be wrapped up with lawyers and legal matters for a very long time.  Furthermore, I am a lot younger than he is, so he’ll probably die with these legal issues hanging over his head, while I won’t.

Someone is trying to falsify a test in which fluid has to be drawn from the last, remaining leaves of a plant.  As a policeman, I’m providing security so the test won’t be faked.

Art School Buddha:  I am myself again.  Four of us are walking down a pleasant, gravel road with shady trees.  The other three are men, maybe one a policeman.  We pass a man walking the other direction, stopping once in a while to pick up discarded cans.  Now my group wants to jog, but I know I can’t keep up with them.  They go on, but I turn back.  I am faced by a steep hill (a cliff face about four meters high) of colored sand.  I try to climb back up the sand, but it slips away from under me in cascades of fine, crystalline color.  I try many times, and I’m incredibly frustrated, but then I finally get on top.

I emerge through the bottom of a concrete shower stall.  Inside a concrete building, I am ecstatic to have finally climbed the sand.  I cheer and jump, dance and flash pictures of my celebration.  I’m so happy!

The building is an art school for young women.  They all have severe acne, which seems a shame because I know how to cure it.  Unfortunately, the young women are all taught to scrub their faces until its red and dry out their skin.  I’m very frustrated watching them inflame their skin with these harsh treatments for their acne.  I finally arrange a time to speak to my two roommates and explain about a gentle and effective cure.  I search in my purse for the ointment that will soothe their skin and heal the acne, but the wrong things keep falling out.  There are some checks from Washington, where I went to another art school before coming to this one.  I am frustrated that I can’t show them the cure.

There is a knocking on our door, and a student informs us that we’re late.  We are supposed to bring our entries for the art contest.  Our professor is missing his chance for a high placing finish.  Along one wall of our room, I see our artwork, a long paper mural with an enormous, Chinese-stylized hand with rings and finely-detailed knuckles and lines on its six fingers.  I count them and think it’s a mistake until I realize it must be a Buddha hand.  The hand is reaching down into the mural to touch a row of flowers that extends the remainder of the horizontal line of the mural.  After being warned we’re late, none of us moves to go….  Time passes.  I wonder why we’re not moving while our professor is losing status as we delay.  We do nothing.

Luxury Restaurant in an Empty City

It begins with a fascination with brown, leather, driving gloves.  They are slender and have a cuff long up the arm.  I see other people wearing them as a new fashion, which irritates me because I had that same pair ten years ago and so did my husband.  Indignantly, I tell another woman this, that I had them first.  She begins to tease me for holding my luxuries too dearly.  She taunts me playfully, asking if I won’t wear my diamonds out now because others have diamonds, too.

We are planning to go somewhere, a restaurant, but I want to know the results of the horse races.  I can’t get an answer.  We are to be seated at a very expensive and exclusive restaurant, but the table is small with booths instead of chairs.  It’s extremely cramped, but all the wealthy people are seated as if it’s normal.  On the way past a man in another booth, I ask if he knows the results of the horse races, but I’m hurried past by the waiter, who is brief with us.  In the booth, the table is almost against our ribs.  I move out of my side and sit beside my friend.  That way, we can push the table away toward the empty side and have some space.  Other diners see what we have done, and some of them want to do the same, yet others feel that they shouldn’t change anything, since this is a fine restaurant, after all, and the standard of luxury.

The restaurant changes.  We’re sitting at a proper table with chairs.  The lighting is dimmed.  My husband is with me now, and there is a dark-haired man, very handsome.  Fronds and firs hang from the rafters and in arrangements all around the restaurant.  There is an event going on with the plants.  The wealthy people purchase the plants and then donate them as they leave.  The man and I discuss whether this is economically efficient.  Wouldn’t it cost more to support a greenhouse and transport energy than it would be to simply leave the fronds and firs alone in the first place?  To us, it seems a way to let wealthy people feel like they’re doing something for the environment when they’re actually doing the opposite.

I wonder once if the firs and fronds are even real.  There is a group of people just leaving the restaurant, having their pictures taken with their donated plants before they go.  They are very happy, lots of smiles and fun and standing in various poses.  They are close enough that I can extend my hand and brush my fingers across the tip of the frond to verify that it’s a live plant.  It was dry, crackly, but alive.  I report that to my husband and dark-haired man.

Something makes me angry, maybe the brusque service of the waiters.  I’m not sure what angered me, but I think it was about the restaurant.  I get up from my table and storm out through a glass door.  Immediately, an alarm sounds.  That’s normal whenever anyone leaves without checking out.  I don’t care.  If they want to stop me, they’ll have to come after me.  On the other side of the door, there is a wide staircase going up.  I begin the ascent, but see one or two waiters there and realize this is a service stair, so I go back down and choose to go through a marble-floored foyer that leads through the outer glass door.

The dream changes now.  I am much more aware of myself as a person.  I have my own body, slender and tallish.  I have my own hair, dark, long, wavy and thick.  Outside, I find myself in an empty city.  The streets and sidewalks are broad and even, but there is almost no one using them.   It is night, but the lights of the city make it seem like early evening.  It is very clean, which makes me think of Europe, but there are many skyscrapers, which gives it the feel of the U.S., so I don’t know where I am, maybe in the future.  It looks futuristic and so do my clothes.  I’m wearing a knit fabric, a contoured, minimalistic dress with a hem just above my knee.  It has a cowl that is continuous with the dress.  I’ve left my purse, so I don’t have a wallet, a phone or any other possessions.  I’m wearing high heels and walking very determinedly, especially as I leave the restaurant still in an outrage over something unknown.

Outside, I begin to calm down a little in the cool air, swinging my arms lightly, walking with enjoyment on the even sidewalk alone in the nearly empty city.  Once in a while, I think of my missing purse, but it’s only a distraction.  I like the freedom without it.  I come to an intersection and need to cross the street.  There are three lanes going each way, six altogether, but only one car in sight.  I start across without a light because there’s no fear of traffic.  Halfway across, my light turns green, and the single car comes to a stop to let me pass.

The skyscrapers recede, and there are more people here, mostly with dogs.  I must be walking beside a park.  I keep my distance from the dogs, which I see as strays.  They seem filthy and diseased with mange…and slobbery.  I don’t like them touching me.  I have raised my cowl against the night and the touch of chill.  My hair is long and wavy, curling out from the edges of the cowl.  A female jogger going the opposite direction on the sidewalk comments breathlessly, “Your head fits that hood well.”  It was such an odd way of saying she liked the cowl that I remembered her words.  I then pass a homeless woman with a long, large face, who is lying on a park bench.  She sings a long, wailing note, strong, wavering and ethereal.  I wonder if there’s a reason homeless people learn to sing these haunting tunes or if it’s the other way around.  Does a singing talent precipitate homelessness?

I have  calmed down completely from the anger about the restaurant.  I continue walking along the wide sidewalk, the park behind me.  The skyscrapers rise again.  The street is lonelier than ever.  Now I see that I’ve come to the end.  There is a wide, public stair that leads from the sidewalk to where the street begins to slope downward and then turn into a tunnel behind a retaining wall and railing.  I imagine the trucks that must use the tunnel, disappearing into the dark.

Here at the end of the empty street is where I am attacked from behind by two men and a woman.  A man wraps his arms around me and then wraps me in tape like a long, sticky streamer.  I ask, “Is this the best you can do?”  I am loose in his arms, as loose as the tape.  He tells me I am going to be their new drug “br...,” a fence for selling drugs.  (I can’t recall the word exactly.)  I’m not frightened, not even worried.  Whatever will be, will be.

As the man tells me this thing about the drugs, my husband suddenly arrives with a huge force of police and militia.  There are many different units, lots of uniforms, weapons and lights, maybe even helicopters.  They take the three criminals prisoner and free me.  I am smug toward the criminals, saying something like they should never have attacked me because look what happened to them.

There is a discussion between the leaders of the different units about my husband.  They compare the kills of his different hunts and determine that he kills more when it’s important.  Judging now by the number of militia he has brought, they conclude that this hunt(?) was his most important ever.

My husband coaches me at the top of the stairs on how to kiss him in front of the cameras so that it makes a good photo for the news.  We kiss twice for photos.  I have to thank the chief of police, as well.  Then I ask my husband what took him so damn long to come look for me after I stormed out of the restaurant.  He and the dark-haired man both have guilty looks on their faces, so I know they finished eating before coming after me.

Going back the direction  that I came, we walk in the wide street, once empty now cluttered with police/military.  I want my purse but, instead of handing it to me, my husband tosses out my wallet onto the street.  I pick up the wallet that contains my credit card and the access it gives me to…anything.  He then tosses out my iphone, and I must have retrieved that, too.  I woke with the image of the iphone in my mind.

Freezing World

I’m dining with my husband at a long table in a medieval manor.  He’s at one end, and I’m at the other.  Behind my husband, a tall, double-door opens, revealing the white, frosty outdoors, and a wizard walks in with a cold wind at his back.  We fear his power, so we make a deal.

The wizard goes one way outside the door to rejoin his master, and I go another way, trying to save the world from the cold brought by the wizard.  In the dining hall, I first saw the fused bunch of onions with green tops.  Outside, I’m still holding the onions, but I’m a man now, and I think I have to get to the church, another medieval-like building.  As I turn to run, ice crystals form along the path.  I run to get ahead of the freezing path, but the ice is too fast.  I am trying to save some people from the ice that is moving like a flash flood.  We want to enter a stone building, a tower with a spiraling staircase on the outer wall.  The tower bursts into flames, a trick of the wizard.  According to the deal I made, I have magic powers, too, so I raise an energy shield around the fire to protect us, but my magic field weakens and becomes small.  We have to get inside very soon, deep away from the world-wrecking cold.

I had planned to give up my magic, but now I don’t want to, and I feel like I am corrupted and that I’ve betrayed my friends by keeping it.  I rationalize that I need my powers to save us all.

Alien Diner

I am on an alien planet with a barren landscape.  The boulders are red and piled up in some places into mountains.  At one point in time, the surface ripples like a long, slow tidal wave of earth, which explains the strange fauna, all very sturdy with flat surfaced faces and bodies.  I see two horse-like beasts flat against the boulders of a slope.  They are gray and immobile, but they detach as I watch, and they separate and heave themselves up the slope…traveling.  The scene is depressing, especially the bulky, graceless, sluggish animals.

I am alone…wandering.  I seldom encounter other people and nearly always at a distance.  They are wanderers, survivors, scavengers like me.

I have settled down now in an enclave of red boulders at some elevation.  I can look down a slope, and I can see across the barren, rocky landscape.  Sometimes I see a wanderer or a pair of people in the distance.

I am looking out from this desolate aerie when I am threatened by a pair of men from behind.  They try to bully me into doing something.  I don’t know what they want, and I don’t think they know either.  It’s not possible to bully me because there’s nothing I want to protect or live for.  I’m immune to their threats, taunts or violence.

My morbid passivity dispels the aggression of the two rough and burly men so they seat themselves, instead, at a boulder as if at a café.  I bring them what I have, a little water in a salvaged, worn, plastic container.  More people, all haggard and rough, come to the red boulder enclave, and I serve them what I have, bits of food or scant water all in deteriorating containers or poorly-crafted bowls of red clay.

A man and woman come to the improvised diner in the barrens, and I bring the woman a little milk in a broad, plastic container like the bottom of a 2-liter soda.  She is hot, dirty and tired, so she tosses the milk like water against her throat and chest to cool herself.  For the first time, my emotions flare, and I cry out in distress over the precious milk.  “More valuable than gold…!”   The regret is piercing, but brief, and I go back to a red boulder where more of the rare, nourishing milk sits at the bottom of a deteriorating container, and I take it to the woman to drink.

My mom appears to help me clean up.  I have piles of clean, folded rags with which I wipe out the bowls and other plastic ware.  She expects and looks around for water, but I explain that there isn’t enough for washing, so we must settle for wiping with these towels.

Another rough stranger complains about the conditions, at which I slam down my towel in my fist against a boulder and cry, “It’s the whole damn solar system…!” By this I mean that it isn’t just this world or this little, red rock diner, so this person won’t find better conditions anywhere and will just have to get used to it.

A pair of wanderers, probably father and son, come into the diner while I am busy, but I see the boy looking at a little, picture frame I have set upright at an angle amidst the crude dinnerware on a boulder.  The frame is white porcelain with tiny, pink roses painted on it.  It is square, about 3 inches in both dimensions.  In gilt lettering, it says “love,” but there’s no image contained in the frame.  It’s empty.

The Talking Man

I gave my son (about 10 in this dream) an ipad.  It’s something new to him.  As he’s using it, a game spontaneously downloads.  He doesn’t know what it’s about, so he brings it to me, and I explain that it has come through waves/invisible signals from the air down into the ipad.  I take the ipad to set up the game for him, but the game becomes a pushy advertisement for insurance.  Talking through the ipad, I tell the insurance agent (a man) that I already have insurance.  After that, he ignores me because he can’t sell me anything.

A very tall (~9 foot), black man appears in my dream.  He has a large head, jaw, and mouth, and he talks so much it’s nearly impossible to speak to him.  He has something to say about the ipad, but I can’t remember what it was.  I say to him, “You talk so much; listen so little.”

This same man is in an earlier dream, connecting the two by his presence.  In that dream, I am on a river when a storm begins.  There is a flash flood, and the winds are very strong.  Riding the front of the flash flood, I sweep by a village.  The houses are very nice with new, sturdy roofs, and I think it’s a shame that such a powerful storm is not able to do more roof damage in this upscale neighborhood.  I leave the river and fly up into the howling winds of the storm.  With my bare hands, I begin ripping off large chunks of roof shingles, destroying the roofs.

From downriver, I am joined by a troupe of singers (all women) who have me join their group.  I am not a very good singer, but I cease tearing up roofs, and I travel upriver with them.  The very tall, black man with the large jaw and mouth is there, too, and he never stops talking.  He says things about how the group is not very good and how they (we) will never be successful.  I want to argue with him, but he never stops talking long enough to insert a comment.  Finally, I talk over him, pointing to one of the singers in the group, and I say that this one is so good that it doesn’t matter about the rest of us.  This one will “take us places.”  I say again (the first time, actually) to the man, ” You talk so much; listen so little.”

Unusual Recovery

I am an archaeology or anthropology student, and my class or expedition is working on clearing bones from the ground, from loose gravel that can be picked or brushed away.  I am working under the guidance of my mentor (a man).  I see a place where I want to go off and clear bones on my own, and my mentor encourages me to explore.  I scratch around a little bit in one place, but then wander back to scratch around in the gravel near a friend (a man, I think).  As I scratch, the gravel becomes the page of a newspaper.  It is the classified section with tall columns of rectangular ads.  One ad at the bottom has the name Jeffrey Mishlove of Thinking Allowed fame.  (I watched a youtube excerpt of the program the evening before this dream.)  We (my friend, the mentor and I, possibly) call the number of the ad or make contact in some other way.  Not clear how this occurs.  The ad clears like a little window or monitor, and I can see a man, a patient, looking through the window in response to the contact.  He is a recovering addict in rehabilitation, and we proceed to set up an appointment with this patient, but are interrupted by a nurse at the clinic.  She wants to know if our group is legitimate, what we plan to do if we meet the patient.  We have to justify ourselves.  My mentor feeds me information, and I relay it to the nurse through the window.  I assure her we plan to set up a series of meeting in which we can all get to know each other and our intentions before we do anything to help.

Paper Balloon Dreams

I see my dream painted in Japanese characters on a sheet of paper about a meter one way, a half meter the other.  The characters on the lower half are painted in bold, black, sweeping strokes.  The upper half is my dream painted as clouds and sky in watercolor blue.  The corners of the paper are folded down and pleated to form a paper balloon.  The balloon is lofted on a cheerful breeze and floats prettily away on the currents.

Another Jungle Adventure

I am in an enclosed jungle (again).  I see two different snakes, but neither necessarily dangerous  to me.  (I saw two snakes in my garden two days ago, snakes large enough to be cautious when I uncovered them.  They were near each other, but two different types, which is slightly unusual.)  My son (adult) is with me in the jungle, and we are wandering around as if it’s the first time we were there.  Exploring, we separate.  After seeing the snakes, I head in his direction.  Maybe to warn him?  In any case, I am near a swampy place in the jungle, and a boat appears that I don’t believe was there before.  I definitely want to tell my son about the boat.  Still heading toward my son, I pass a parrot on a log that extends out over the swampy place.  A fuzzy monster rises up out of the water and snatches the bird.  Immediately, another parrot takes its place, and I wonder if this goes on over and over again.

Now I reach some wooden steps that are finely jointed and sanded.  They go up and curve toward an equally well-constructed and beautiful deck with wooden seating and a view out toward the jungle as if it is a garden.  There are electronics on the deck, monitors, maybe game consoles.  My son is fascinated by all this, and it is where he has been all the while I was having my jungle adventures.  Also on the deck is a small opening, a round hole just large enough for small children to climb through.  Inside, there is a cave-like place with a monitor just visible through the hole.  It is inaccessible to my son, but he watches the monitor through the hole.

I turn to go because I see that my son is not paying any more attention to the jungle.  Instead, he is entranced by the electronic equipment.  I feel a little jealous of his ability to be hypnotized and happy, but also a little sad and a little regretful about it.  On the steps, I now bump into a jungle native, a man.  He is dirty and mossy, but I am drawn to him immediately.  It’s one of those strong and dramatic oneness dream feelings.  I go with him (for no particular reason I can identify), and we are joined by others of his jungle tribe, particularly a woman with two children, one which she carries on her hip.  At first everyone is naked or with very little clothing.  That changes as we walk past tables piled high with donated clothes.  I don’t actually see anyone pause or pull clothing on, but the state of the natives improves as dream time passes.  They are cleaner, better-clothed.  The man, in particular, is less offensive to me and more attractive.

We seem to be walking within the curving perimeter of the enclosed jungle.  Eventually, the jungle gives way to an office setting entwined with vines.  I am familiar with the furniture and equipment in the office, though the natives are not.  Another man is in the office.  He’s dressed appropriately for his work in a shirt and tie.  Amidst the office equipment, I spot the one thing that I’ve missed more than anything in the jungle, a coffee maker!  I shout out with glee when I see it, and I begin to rummage through cabinets looking for a filter and coffee.  Several times, I shout, “Coffee!”  The office man and I work together to get coffee brewing, but the product is something pale and crystalline, so I don’t get my coffee after all.

Fragment from another long dream:  I experienced one of those frustrating clothes moments.  I’m wearing a short-sleeved, brown shirt with a zipper down the front, but the zipper is completely inoperative, and I am stuck in this tight-fitting shirt.  As a solution, I have a pair of scissors in my hand, and I frantically and aggressively cut myself out of the shirt.  As usual, it was a relief to finally be free of the binding clothing.  When I woke up, I tried to remember if I had ever used such an aggressive approach to freeing myself and can’t recall doing so.

The Good Life

I am driving a motorcycle very fast down a highway when I start to close on slower traffic ahead.  Seeing my danger, I try to brake, but I’m going faster instead.  I then realize there are two brakes, one that makes me go faster, one that slows me, and I’m pushing them both.  Once I figure that out, I pull back on the brake that accelerates me, but it’s not enough in time, so I have to veer off the highway to avoid hitting the traffic ahead.  At a great speed, I drive through a yard cluttered with objects and manage to negotiate my way through without causing any damage.  It’s quite remarkable, and I’m feeling rather pleased with my skills and control.

I notice now that I’m dressed appropriately for the motorcycle in leathers, a sleek outfit, and I have short, dark hair, a bob, and lipstick, maybe bright pink.  Overall, an edgy, but chic, look.  After the yard, I plan to drive my motorcycle on a highway parallel to the first, but that highway now appears to be a walkway, and I am another woman looking at myself.  I am both women now, I mean.

As the second woman, I am joined by a man wearing a pink, paisley? leisure suit.  It sounds atrocious, but to my dream eyes, it was marvelous.  He’s a mature man with graying hair, but not an old man.  He’s also carrying an object indicating wealth and sophistication.  A cane comes to mind now, but I’m not sure.  He notices my first self on the motorcycle and congratulates me, the second self, on my cleverness to plant another woman in the crowd for his interest, as though it was a game we had played previously.  I try to deny doing anything like that intentionally, but he sort of sweeps me up into all his assumptions and lifestyle.

Now I am the second woman and pushing the motorcycle as if it is mine while I and the man, my partner, make our way to a restaurant for a dinner date.  The staff all know us, and there’s a large space cleared around the table for me to park the motorcycle.  I try to click down a kickstand with my foot, but I can’t get it to work.  I’m fumbling with the motorcycle, trying everything I can to make it stand up beside the table, and a waiter tries to help, and my partner tries to help.  Finally, the motorcycle is reduced down to its frame as we work on the mechanism, and it is set aside.

My partner, who the waitstaff treats as if he’s my husband, begins to hang curtains made of a printed, holiday fabric.  He’s either attaching the curtains on rings or sewing pleats at the top, his arms extended up high as he works.  The waiter says something about my partner always doing what I want, to which we both react good-naturedly.  I reply that he likes it that way or that it always turns out well for him.  It seemed witty and light-hearted at the time.  While my partner continues working with the curtains, I am dancing to music playing in the restaurant.  I am not very good, so I stumble a lot, but everyone watching in the restaurant seems to think I am a wonderful dancer.  I am now dressed in the most marvelous 50s outfit, a buttoned blouse with a square pocket, darts, short sleeves and a stiff collar.  My skirt has a high, narrow waist with voluminous pleating that twirls divinely as I spin.  My shoes are heels that bring the whole look down to a point at the floor.  I can see myself in a mirrored wall, but I avoid looking because I’m such a poor dancer.  At the end of the dream, a lovely, sustained note plays, and I twirl on a point, gracefully for the first time, holding the slow spin as long as the note wavers.  It’s delightful.

Thistle Worry

My mom (deceased) and I are walking toward the pasture.  [The property is in the same configuration as the home where I grew up, but it seems like a different place.  The plants are different.  The barn is there, but different.]  The pasture has rich, various grasses (not the fescue that was there) and a mixed population of forbs as if the horses have not been grazing it for a long time.  The wind is moving the grasses, and it seems wilder than it really was.  There are a few flowers, tall and blooming, dotted across the field.  I spot a splash of purple/lavender, which concerns me.  I am worried it might be thistle.  My mom and I spread out to walk across the pasture.  I wade through the tall grasses, my intent to reach the purple flowers and determine if they are thistle or not, a noxious weed where I live that can ruin a pasture, a garden, the whole landscape.

I reach it, and I am pretty sure it’s not thistle, but then my attention is diverted by a tall patch of weeds in a corner of the field where my older sister has previously located a shed or enclosure, something that killed the grass in that corner, but was then removed, leaving the area open to invasion by the tall plants.  They are a thick-leaved plant about six foot tall, growing very close together.  The leaves are yellowing as though they are ripening.  They’re a little like tobacco, but less fuzzy, more columnar, more fleshy.

From there, I walk towards the barn.  There’s a portion of the pasture north of the barn where the grass is gone, and I realize it’s because things have been piled on it, things like farm equipment, building supplies, all manner of things used in the garden or farm, junk and stuff my mom has collected for years, piling up, some of it deteriorating, some of it used now and then.  Recently, my mom and dad have been loading it up and hauling it away or stacking it in the barn.  Now the ground underneath is revealed.

My sister joins us, and I see a trailer loaded with more things that need to be hauled away.  The work seems much more than I have the energy to do.  I don’t want to worry about it.