Bubbles, and The Stores

Package of Bubbles (fragment): I am preparing a package to mail to my DIL and son.  I’m packing glass jars full of soda bubbles and pastel, iridescent colors .  The jars have to be wrapped in lots of bubble wrap and paper so that they don’t break.  As I wrap and pack, I pare down the package, sending only what is essential for my DIL to recreate the project.  There were 4 jars and 4 lids or more, and the ingredients, but in the end, there were an unknown number of jars, only 2 lids, and some ingredients.

The Stores:  I’m in a grocery store where I’m not shopping.  There’s a table where shoppers and employers can both sit and eat.  I see a young woman eating a processed breakfast cereal, which horrifies me (in waking life, too!), so I want to show her how to make something healthy.  I suggest oatmeal, and I go to look with her for oatmeal on the shelves of the store.  I can’t find any basic oatmeal at all, only weird varieties of processed oatmeal.  I come back to find the young woman preparing to eat garlic oatmeal that she found on the shelves.  With a squeal, I stop her just in time from eating another weird, commercial product.

Now I go with a young man (an employee?) to look further in the store.  We have an odd way of traveling where he sits on the floor.  I stand on the end of his shirt, and we slide along the smooth floors.  This arrangement comes apart now and then, but we situate ourselves and continue on.

I end up with some small figurines, about 10 of them.  The smallest is around 1 in.; the largest no more than 2.  They are of various shapes.  One is an animal, I believe, maybe a bear.  One might be an egg.  One might be a girl. (I’m not sure; mere impressions.)  I enter a part of the store that is a flea market.  While I browse (with my figurines in my hands), a woman, the owner of the booth, returns to her station.  She would like to sell me something, but I already have my objects.  I display them as if to show her I don’t need anymore.  My objects are very nice, better than anything she has, although much smaller.  I think she was offended, but I didn’t mean it that way.

There’s a boy there, an odd boy.  He might be the woman’s son, but not necessarily.  He likes my figurines, maybe wants one.  I’m not sure he’s human or …um…he has an odd way of communicating and gesturing.  Either he’s alien, deficient, or a genius. (He reminds me of boys I’ve dreamed before.)  Next, a young man like the one who escorted me around the store earlier associates himself with the boy.  The young boy is glad to see him and uses his name, which was clear in the dream (but not now).  It was something like Kethel or Keifel.  I was struck by the word/name, and I repeated it, but I didn’t say it correctly.  The boy (or man) corrects me, and I try again, but I can’t quite get the pronunciation right.

Hiding Michael, A Trap, and Glass City

3:33 am: I am with Michael again, and the relationship is in full swing, but I don’t want my family to know that I’m involved with my first cousin.  Like before, I am intermittently without clothes.  It adds to my feelings of awkwardness, but doesn’t interfere with the drama.

I’m trying to hide Michael in my bedroom, but we first pass through a bath-room that contains only a tub.  My dog, Hannah, is in the tub with water over her head.  She is such a tolerant dog (as she was in waking life)  that she remains under water without any complaint, but I want to get her out.  I don’t have clothes on so it’s not a problem to stand in the tub with her.  As the water drains, I use my hands to wash her, but now she’s a blonde lab instead of black.  (She was a black lab in waking life.)

Now Michael is tucked into my bed, the covers up to his chin.  My bedroom has many doors all leading to different places.  One leads to my sister’s room.  One was the door we entered from the bath-room.  I am trying to close all the doors so no one will discover Michael.  Some of the doors don’t have locks, and none of the doors swings/opens the same way.  I pull a large bureau in front of the door that enters my sister’s room, but then realize the door swings the other direction.  My sister looks in through the half-open door, so I try to block her view of the bed by standing in front of the opening.  She wants to know which nursery rhyme I told my niece (my sister’s daughter) earlier when I was in their bedroom.  I try very hard to remember so that I can tell her quickly and get her out of the doorway.  Finally, I remember and recite it for her.

“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick.”  There was another verse about being “brave.”  This satisfies my sister, so she goes away without discovering Michael.

I try to close a bolt lock on another door, but it won’t stay locked.  Maybe the bolt is too short.

I see that my mom is approaching one of the doors that I can’t lock, so I go out of the room to intercept her.  I know that I have given her two of my paintings before, and now she says that she needs nothing changed about the “Salvation Army,” as if my paintings had something to do with that.  She’s completely emotionless, and I can’t understand what she means at all.

A Trap (fragment):  There are two blonde men who enter a fast food restaurant.  They are there on business, which might be criminal.  They want more of their gang to join them, but the additional men have to be rung in by the fast food clerk at the counter, something about unlocking a door with a buzzer.  Before this can happen, the two men run out of the restaurant to discover their friend (also blonde, a very light shade of hair like all of them had) on a sidewalk or loading dock.  He is gagged with tape, but he’s making a muffled, frantic sound that I understand to mean, “It’s a trap!”  He keeps repeating that to his friends, warning them.

Glass City (fragment):  All the buildings of the city are made of glass on airy, metal frameworks.  It’s futuristic.  I can perform superhuman feats.  I can jump very high, which I do in a tall, glass-ceilinged plaza.  I can jump up to higher stories.  I jump up to an upper story where a woman was (maybe) dining and fell out onto the sloping roof of glass through a window.  I try to save her by grabbing her hand and pulling her back in, but it’s not working.  The woman keeps skidding further from my grasp.

 

Mansion Upgrade, Pirates, and The Hotel

Another “Mansion” dream:  In this one, the mansion is more vast than it has ever been.  It has wide staircases, marble floors, and ornate rooms.  I am showing a woman around because I’m selling.  In particular, I remember one room with a bathtub.  The floor is made of thick slabs of marble laid like the rays of a semi-circle, although all but two of the wedge-shaped rays are missing, a problem that discourages the potential buyer.  I gloss over the problem and talk up the house because I want to sell, and I can’t help gloating, too, because I am moving on to a house and situation that are even bigger and better.

Pirates: I am the captive of pirates, who are pushing me along the seashore on foot.  I try to escape by swimming out to sea.  I look forward to the freedom and smooth feeling of the open water, but several of the pirates break off from the group and follow me.  Although they don’t catch me, I give up when they come close, and I return to shore.  At the end of this forced walk, presumably, I have an opportunity to prove myself to the leader of the pirates (Dwayne Johnson).  As a girl, I stand at a chalkboard and work equations.  I think this was to show my value, that I am good for something, but the chalkboard numerals are beyond his comprehension, and he can’t see the value in it.  Still, I must have earned some latitude (more freedom), because afterward, I seem to have a mentor, a priest in a long, black robe that I never actually see.  He turns out to be my guardian as I grow up.  I tell someone, maybe my dreaming self, “You can’t believe all the things I’ve told him.”  These confidences make me feel awkward or vulnerable.

The Hotel:  My first recollection is of a hotel room and a fumbling prelude to sex with my ex-H in a bed.  The room is high up in the hotel.  There is a large, plate-glass window with a view of the city at night.  The lights are pretty.  My ex-H and I are supposed to be getting back together, but neither of us likes the other.  Our attempt at intimacy fizzles out, and he plans to leave the hotel room with a friend.  There’s a brief interlude that involves some very small children in the hotel, and I am taking care of them.  I look for my granddaughters among the toddlers, but the girls aren’t there.

I plan now to leave my ex-H because it’s not working out.  When he learns this, he steals my gun from my luggage.  This leaves me feeling helpless and angry. When he goes out with his friend (a man), I steal the gun back and stash it in my suitcase.  Mentally, I make many plans to avoid discovery and, thus, having it taken away from me.  I put the gun in various pockets of various bags and determine how best to ensure that I am the one carrying the bag concealing the gun.

I don’t remember my ex-H’s return.  The next thing I recall is receiving a promotion at work.  It has something to do with print or language.  I am dyslexic (in the dream), but I have produced some good work related to writing.  I see a page of my work.  The print is blockish, childish, but high quality.  At the same time, I experience a memory of burning the hotel room, possibly with my ex-H in it.  Immediately after this, I receive another promotion at work, better than the first.  All three of these things together add up to a feeling of great satisfaction.

 

Note:  I heard yesterday that a friend is getting back together with his ex-gf, which probably influenced the imagery in the hotel dream.  Also, I’m still having problems with vertigo and balance, which might explain my dream dyslexia.

Shower, and Calendar’s Driveway

Shower: I want to take a shower, but there are two women ahead of me so I have to wait.  When I get in the shower, there is still enough warm water, although I was afraid it would have all been used.  Although enough, it’s not a lot, and the water turns cool.  Coming out of the shower, I feel like I need to write up this dream right away.  I go into another place/room.  My sister and another woman are there.  I sit at a desk with a typewriter, the kind with keys and paper that rolls out the top.  I can see the bold, black lettering on the page that striking the keys produces.  I leave wide line spaces between my sentences so I can organize my dream, that is, so I can roll the paper back down and add sentences in where I’ve left space.  Afterward, I return to the shower and notice that the shower curtain is glowing with gold/white light.  It’s very beautiful, and I wonder why it’s glowing.  After some thought, I decide it must be from the full moon shining through the window onto the curtain.

 

Calendar’s Driveway:  I was driving my car and pulled into the driveway on the wrong day of the calendar.  I mean…I drove into the day’s driveway…the day of the calendar…the wrong one.

Maria’s Bar

I was looking for a bar and someone told me about a place called Maria’s, a bar finer than any other I was told.  While on the sidewalk, I saw the sign for Maria’s hanging above its door.  As soon as I walk in, I see that I go down a wide, open stairway to reach the bar that is situated in the basement.  There are people near the door, along the stairs, and in the lobby in front of the open door of the bar below.  They are all dressed very well, more like for a fine restaurant than a bar.  I went down the stairs threading my way between the people, who are offering drinks to the newcomers, but none to me.

As I enter the bar, I begin to feel light on my feet.  I am starting to float a few inches above the floor as I look around, scanning the faces of people in the bar.  I remember only men and remember wondering if any would offer me a drink.  I am floating even more freely, feeling euphoric, and I now realize I am dreaming, so I am careful not to wake up because floating is so wonderful.  I want to go on floating for as long as I can.  I want to show off my floating, but no one notices.

I look some more at the people and see one man who I think might offer me a drink, but he doesn’t.  Instead, he has escorted or urged another man into a chair like an electric execution chair with a high back and wide arm rests.  There are many cords attached to the chair from the wall.  The plugs are of various types.  Some are electrical power cords. Some look like telephone data cords for a landline.  The man in the chair, I believe, is intended as entertainment, and the other man is the emcee.  When I see that they are going to zap the man in the chair, I cry out, “No, no, you can’t do that!” and I run over to the chair and begin frantically pulling wires out of the wall and the chair.  I keep pulling on these wires, but I can’t seem to free the man.  Then the emcee comes over to stop me, and there is a brief struggle between us in which I knock over the electric chair and fall to the floor.  When I fall, my back makes contact with one of the cords, this one like the plug with little prongs that charges my iphone.  I wasn’t hurt, but I felt like something had happened to me.  At this point, the man in the chair is free, and the emcee leaves, is no longer in the picture.

While I am still on the floor, the plug still in contact with my back, the man who was in the chair looks down at me and exclaims in surprise that there is something different, changed, about me.  “You look like slow paper….”

I’m surprised and confused, and I reply to him, “What?  What does slow paper look like?!  I don’t know what that looks like!”

The man tries to show me with his face by distorting his face in waves like a piece of paper that is curving.  He says, “That’s slow paper.”  By the way he is looking at me, I know something is different and unusual about my eyes as if I was charged or loaded with data or transformed in some other way I don’t know.  But I didn’t think I looked like “slow paper,” whatever that was or is.

Declining Neighborhood, and Red Bat

Declining Neighborhood:  A residential neighborhood falling into ruin.  An immense concrete lot.  All of it completely de-populated, not a soul or sound anywhere.  I am with a group of friends or colleagues.  With some hesitation, we continue walking, making our way across the wide concrete, progressing closer to the houses that we see have not been inhabited or repaired, maybe for decades.  As we cross the concrete, people appear out of thin air.  I look at them, searching for something.  In the near distance, I spot a mature man with dark hair and skin sitting on a porch.  The houses here have seen some maintenance as though people live in them.

My group and I approach the man, a native Spanish speaker who speaks little English.  Another person (unknown gender) serves as an interpreter, although the man can understand quite a bit of our talk.  We’re here to enlist him for help in the neighborhood, to set up a way to distribute aid.  The man is far ahead of us though.  Before we can interfere, he is behind a counter on the sidewalk, distributing donations of food from local businesses, none of this to do with the effort of my group.  At some point, my two sons are helping by transporting boxes of food, but there is a mix-up in how they are stacked, something about sorting the processed foods away from those with nutritional value.    People in the neighborhood gather eagerly, and the food is soon passed out.

Then the man begins to distribute a few, single, choice items.  He has a cast-iron cook pot I’d love to have, but it goes to another cook, not me, although I am also considered a cook.  After the cook pot is gone, the man offers me a cast-iron muffin pan.  It makes only four, tiny muffins, and I decline, asking, “Who would bother to make muffins so small, especially only four of them?”  I offer the muffin tin to another person, but they don’t want it either.

Red Bat: I am in a stone tower, and there are many rooms to be examined.  One room has an opening in the wall through which one could walk into the air.  Outside, it is evening or cloudy; there’s a blue-ish cast to the sky.  In that room, there are two chests or dressers with drawers.  I and others (male?) are looking through the drawers for treasure, possibly though we are not allowed.  In one drawer, I find a red-lacquer medallion shaped like a bat, which I consider to be valuable.  I take it. I like the feel of it in the palm of my hand.

On top of that same dresser is an assortment of large crystals.  One of the aggregates is amethyst and arranged like a tower with the tallest crystal in the center.  A man in the room becomes angry about something, maybe about the medallion I took or, perhaps, about the amethyst crystal aggregate.  He picks up the crystal tower from amidst the others on the dresser and flings it across the room where it smashes into another collection of aggregate crystals on the floor, some of which are shattered, as is the amethyst tower.

Fragment:  I have a dream in which I am confused about right and left sides or directions.  When I wake around 3 am, I have difficulty walking because I am unbalanced.

Kissing Michael

I was anticipating this dream, and I remembered it in an interesting way.  In hypnopompia, I was designing my dress when I realized I was awake and that the dress was intended to match the caftan worn by my partner in the dream that was just finishing and that this was the dream I had been expecting.  Quite an interesting start to my morning.

It begins with a bicycle ride.  I’m on a low-riding, blue bike with all-terrain tires that I have just ridden a long way along a highway in order to visit my family.  My mom has driven along the same route in her blue, Dodge van, and we arrive more or less in the driveway of my DIL/son at the same time.  Inside the house, I am overjoyed to see my granddaughters (twins), who are a little older in the dream than their actual, adorable, 1-year-old selves right now.  The g-daughter, whom I consider the cuddler of the two, hugs me, and I hold on for a long time, enjoying the closeness with her.  More children are arriving at the house, and I enjoy the energy of that, then adult relatives begin to arrive as if for a holiday gathering, and the energy becomes more chaotic and less positive.

I want to get out of there, even though it means leaving family, even though it means leaving my precious granddaughters. I intend to go back on the highway alone, riding my bicycle.  I anticipate the freedom of the drive, but my dad thinks it is a foolish and dangerous thing to do, riding a bicycle on the highway alone.  He chides me, telling me that saving fuel is only a fad, and he tries to get me to abandon my plan.  My cousin (male, adult, whom I am calling Michael for this dream) also tries to dissuade me.  With him, there is history, a kind of veiled intimacy never allowed to develop.  I tell Michael that, despite this intermittent understanding we have but deny, that he can’t control what I do.  He can’t share a look with me once or twice a year and then pretend to have rights over me.

Outside, I continue toward my bicycle in the driveway.  Another cousin of mine also confronts me.  He attacks me with the burning end of what might be cigarettes.  He presses them against my chest and arms, burning me.  I walk away from him, too, leaving him behind.  I try to gather the few things I will need for my trip.  One was my phone in a backpack.  All the while, family members are standing in the driveway, none of them understanding why I want to get away and all of them disapproving of my plans.  This pressure only makes me want to get alone on my bike even more, although it makes it hard to choose and pack what I will need.  I end up tossing random things together and rushing off down the little street, heading toward the highway with plans to stop soon at a hotel because it’s getting dark.  I don’t tell anyone that because I don’t care at the moment if they think I am crazy and would actually drive a bicycle on the highway alone at night.  I just want to get away from them.

I have not traveled far when a bus full of my relatives pulls up beside me, their minds still bent on stopping me.  Next thing I know I’m in the back of the bus with my bicycle.  Michael is driving.  I desperately want out and begin to experience claustrophobia.  I am trying to scream, but as often happens in dreams, no sound will come out.  I am determined, however, to get out of that bus, so I make a re-doubled effort to scream, and I manage some small, croaking sounds.  My relatives accuse me of faking, but my effort is rewarded with a slight opening of the windows, and any crack is enough to give me hope of escape.

I am now free of the bus and walking through a plaza or mall or um….like a university student union busy with people, but more open to a diverse public.  In some instances, I am uncomfortably naked because I was so rushed to pack that I only tossed in some rags, especially some frayed towels, one of which I can vividly recall in detail.  Despite this intermittent discomfort, the drama continues to unfold.

In the plaza, I meet my cousin, Michael, again.  He has left the bus to try once again to persuade me to return to the family gathering.  In many ways, he looks like my waking-life cousin, but I see at least once in great detail that his eyes are completely different.  We embrace; we kiss; we caress; the first time we’ve had the courage to do these things, that is, to indulge what our eyes have shared across the rooms of family gatherings all those many years, one isolated day at a time, and it feels wonderful. He makes accusations about my past foibles, chiding me for the passions and fads I have adopted and abandoned over the years, especially in the realm of romance.  I am duly embarrassed, but his chiding continues until I expect he is exaggerating, and I accuse him of doing so.  Blithely, he admits that, perhaps, he is overstating his case.  In his arms, I listen as his talk goes on, bubbling out of him.  He croons at length about philosophy and poetry, and the sound is arousing and soothing at the same time.  Vaguely, I remember I am married and that, as cousins, this is a mild form of incest, but those rules seem to apply to another world, not to this or to us.

We are pulled slightly apart when two university students (women) interrupt to show Michael their paintings for evaluation.  They have painted them for a contest sponsored for a book publishing company, and both images are an older man with long, graying hair that the women have labeled master of plants or plant wizard in archaic lettering.  My thoughts are that Michael is probably a university professor and that the images are appropriate for the publishing company named _________ because they publish books of that genre.  Michael suggests they would have more success if there was a story to support their reasoning to name the man a plant wizard.  I add that the appropriate plants, if the species were known, would make interesting additions to the paintings.

Michael leaves me to locate my bicycle, which has been abandoned in the plaza.  In his absence a little girl comes to me, and I embrace her warmly.  Together, we find the frayed towels I brought with me, and I drape them to make clothing.  We walk to a room entered from the plaza.  It’s like a large closet and filled with a great variety of items, desks no longer in use, for example, and, to my benefit, some discarded clothes.  I find a floor-length, yellow, peasant dress and put that on.  I feel pretty and adequately dressed now.  I feel ready to properly meet Michael when he returns, which he does.  He has brought clothing with him, a large, rotating display case hung with elaborate clothes for a woman.  I remember one mini-dress with puffy layers of fabric in shades of brown.  It was too many layers and textures for my taste, like all the clothes he chose for me.  I notice that he is wearing a simple, but chic, caftan of brown, shimmering fabric that reaches mid-calf, and he is wearing brown suede boots.  I clarify with him the purpose of our clothing.  I felt my yellow dress was adequate for the occasion of returning to the family gathering, but he implies that we’re going elsewhere, out together to celebrate and enjoy the commitment we have finally acknowledged.  In that case, I admit I’ll need a finer dress, something to match his caftan, and none of those he brought will do, so I begin to design it.  It will be eggshell white, a shift with fringe like a flapper’s dress. [Dress Image] As I create the design in my mind, I continually examine the brown caftan to draw inspiration and to maintain coherence with what Michael is wearing.

At this point, I realize I am awake and then immediately realize the cream-colored dress belonged fully to and was an extension of the dream.

Roommates

I have two younger roommates in a dorm at a university.  The room has a specific arrangement that I show below.  In addition to the young women, there are two men who have a separate room with a door into our dorm.  The diagram shows how we share a common outer door.  There’s an alcove without a door for the bathroom.  Beyond the area of the beds, there is a walk-in refrigerator, the back of which is empty and angled.  Back there past the shelves, it’s cool and cave-like.

In the hallway of the dorm, I follow a matronly woman, a manager or supervisor, asking her for a job teaching the little children.  I recite a glowing list of merits, my experience with children, my degrees in child development, my love of the children.  She’s busy, keeps walking away, not paying me any mind.  On my little bed in the dorm room, I share my despair with my female roommates.  I weep and sob as I tell them how much I miss the kids I used to work with and how much I want to do that type of work again.

Another conversation on the bed.  I tell my female roommate that I’ve gained five pounds in one month.  She thinks I’m worrying about nothing because I’m currently so thin.  I differ with her, explaining that at that rate, I’ll gain 60 pounds in one year, which is considerable.

Another scene in the dorm room.  The two men emerge from their little room and attempt to make modifications to the light switches.

Another scene, this time of the refrigerator.  There is a woman working in there, opening the door to remove or rearrange items.  I can see a large lizard about the size of a cat walking slowly from the cave-like back of the fridge toward the front.  The lizard frightens me more than it should.  I begin to complain about it, and my fear grows as nothing is done.  In more detail, I see that the back of the fridge needs to be swept out.  There is debris, another sign of the incompetence of the refrigerator manager.   I see back there another lizard, also walking forward.  By now, I am screaming in utter panic, terrified of the lizards.  I believe this ended when the fridge door was finally shut, but I can’t honestly recall the transition to the next scene, which I believe is the gym.

I am at the gym with one of my roommates, who is a black woman.  (At least one of the roommates previously had long, blonde hair.)  She is lying on her back lifting a barbell from her chest upward.  I am helping her by pushing down on the bar of weights.  She is nearly as strong as I am although I have all the advantage and leverage.  It’s all I can do to push the weight back down to her chest.

At some point, a karate class enters the gym for their regular workout.  This group is well-known because the instructor has them wear special slippers when they work out, and the slippers have been featured on television.  Everyone mocks the slippers, but the karate instructor is unaffected by anyone’s opinions.  When I see the karate students in their slippers/booties, I wonder if it’s possible that they are good for them and that everyone else is wrong about the slippers.

As I wait for my roommate to finish her work out, I walk to a waiting room full of people also waiting.  I have a towel with a complicated system of Velcro straps.  I’m trying, post workout, to place it around my hips like a skirt.  I think aloud to myself, “…the lower I make the waistline, the younger I appear to be.”  I didn’t want it to be too low.

My memory becomes exceptionally fragmented at this point, but I’ll mention some isolated images, a murder mystery discussion; laying my head on a man’s shoulder; shopping briefly with a baby; cushions covered in cat hair that I find extremely disgusting; worried I left my gym gear, but assured by my roommate that she put it in the bag; dropped the baby on its head; the baby goes elsewhere, perhaps with its parents.

dormroom2

 

The Secure Cave, and The Baby Elephant

The Secure Cave: I watch a young man, broadly and athletically built, blonde-haired, examining a cave.  It must suit him, because he begins working on adding a massive, iron door across the single opening.  It’s a tricky construction project.  He has to wedge rocks into the irregular areas around the door in order to make it secure.  I’m not sure he can accomplish what he wants.  I see him showing a friend, another man, this one with dark hair.  He shows the man a niche in the cave wall that forms a platform.  It’s for a bed, and the blonde needs a woman to share it.  One wall of the bed niche has a notch in it, a place for the young man’s elbow to draw back a bow.  He’s planned the bed niche so that he can face and defend his iron door if attacked while asleep.  Everything he has done is to make the cave as secure a place as possible.

The Baby Elephant:  I am with my husband in our yard, specifically in my vegetable garden.  Together, we are re-positioning some potted plants amidst the jungle of plants.  I have to bend over the lamb’s quarters in order to untangle the okra, which I don’t want damaged.  As we are working, a baby elephant gambols into sight in a lawn-like part of the yard beside the veggie garden.  It’s an astounding sight, and I say aloud in astonishment, “Baby elephant!” [I would not be surprised if that was audible.]  It’s a really cute elephant, but I’m worried it’s too large for the yard and that it will damage the fences with its antics.  It’s very playful and lively, jumping and running like a puppy.  It drops to its knees and rolls on its back to scratch, then jumps up, runs to an open gate, spins 90 degrees and heads out.  I can hardly believe the elephant made it through the gate without touching either side and without any damage at all.

The elephant is out of sight on the other side of the wooden fence.  Now I see my dad coming down the stairs from the deck.  He’s heavier than he ever was while alive, always being a physically fit man.  My mom remains up on the 2nd story deck looking out over the yard.  I know at this point that it is my mom and dad who have brought the baby elephant to my house.

Round and Round

So many dreams; so little time.  Today, I’ll only share the lengthiest and most coherent of the many experiences of last evening.  It’s all I can do to keep up with it all.

I am holding a lump of gold in my hand and being pushed forward into a dangerous game, by whom I don’t know, but I get the feeling it (he) is male.  There is a rotating platform with pillars.  In the center, a dragon breathes fire outward, and the pillars are the only barrier to being burned.  I have to brave the dragon’s breath, first on a lower level, then on a level above this one, a platform more elaborate.

I am then in the lower level of a bar, a place reached by a long, narrow stair with light at the top and a handrail.  In the basement bar, the circular dragon game is virtual, and there is a group of us who want to play it.  There is trouble getting the game turned on, so we ask the waitress if she can get the game functioning, implying that we’ll take our business elsewhere if it doesn’t work.  The game is not repaired, so we leave.  On the way out, I mention to the bartender that I suppose we’ll have to buy drinks from upstairs where there’s a game.

I hear two women walking ahead of me gossip about what I said.  In their version, it sounds like a threat to the bartender, and I look very bad.  I confront them and try to clear it up, but then I want no more to do with rumor and gossip, so I turn my back on the group and leave.  My words as I leave are, “…because I hate rumors of any kind.”

I take a bag with me, something like a backpack over my shoulder.  A recording plays from inside the bag, possibly from an iphone, and I just let it play until it’s finished.  Outside, the ground is covered in wet, slushy snow, quite nasty.  I have the sense that I’m in London now and the architecture of the buildings suggests it, as well as the wet weather.  I think I am on my way to find a car I rented and drive to a hotel, but walking in the snow is treacherous.  At one point, the slushy snow comes nearly over my boot.

Then I have to walk along a tiny, stone ledge very high up on a building in the snow.  It’s dangerous, yet the man behind me doesn’t help at all.  When I have made it, I turn to help the man behind me.  Once I am over, I am confronted by the knowledge that I have a little dog with me.  Preparing to go forward, I insert packs into larger packs.

Also at this point, a young man joins up to help me.  We have to climb down the rocks to reach the car for which I am still headed.  I go first and then turn to help him.  For a moment, my head is at the level of his chest, producing an experience of intimacy and the knowledge of our oneness, then the moment is gone as we hear the distant sound of Indians like in an old-fashioned T.V. Western.  I have the keys to the car.  I am juggling them on a ring.  We are trying to scramble into the car to avoid the danger of the Indians, but everything is turned around the wrong way, both from back to front and from left to right.  Although I open the door and the man gets in, it’s the wrong side of the car, so I have to go around to the driver’s seat to get in.

Despite the backwardness of the car and sitting on the left side, (the doors were also hinged the wrong way), I am able to drive us out of a driveway and toward a road.  There at the exit, I am completely confused by directions, not just north, south, east and west, but also simply left and right.  Regardless, I drive to a convenience store to make time to read a map.  The car is gold and quite square like a hummer.  I park it, and we go into the store.  The people inside fix my glasses, which have a military insignia.  The man is also wearing glasses that I led him to believe also have an insignia, wings designating a pilot, but the wings are really the tall ears of pink, playboy bunny glasses.

Back in the parking lot, we encounter gypsies/thieves going from car to car, methodically checking each for a way to break in to steal gas or whatever else they can.  The gypsy clan all drive gold vans, making it very hard to find our gold vehicle among the many other gold cars in the parking lot.  We look and look, but can’t find it and finally conclude that gypsies stole it because I didn’t lock it when we left.

We still have someplace to go, maybe the hotel, but that destination is compromised by the mob/mafia, so we have to go back to where we left our artwork drying.  The art was no good to begin with, and it’s even worse now when we find it on tables in the hideout of the bad guys.  I don’t want to join them, but we have no money, so we join them to pay off our debts.