Dying from a Vaccine

I’m in a laboratory, not modern and sterile, but a place with wooden counters and old-fashioned glass, chemistry equipment.  There’s a man there who ingests or injects himself with a vaccine that is toxic.  A second man there says it will probably kill the first man.  The second man is immune to the toxin/vaccine because he has been in the natural places, exposed to the natural plants/environment from which the vaccine was derived.  The second man says I should also make myself immune, so I ingest/inject one of the six toxins/vaccines.  I become very sick with fever and hallucinations, and the second man says I will probably die.

I run out of that laboratory into the streets of an old village with wooden buildings.  It is night time.  I run through the streets until I see a shop with yellow light glowing in the window.  Still feverish and sick, I stumble into the shop and then back out again into the street.  The shopkeeper runs after me, wanting to find and help me, but not sure what to do.  My point of view in the dream shifts, and I no longer see myself.  Instead, I see two women on horseback, their coats and hair flying, racing through the village.  They are friends of mine searching everywhere to try to help me.

Planes & Polka Dots

I’m outside.  There’s a small building and tall, chain-link fences.  There are other people around, too, with no particular relationship to me, although we seem to have similar purposes.  We are being harassed by planes overhead, so we try to evade them.  There’s one man, especially, whom we cooperate to protect.  He doesn’t want to be enclosed by us, so I embrace him and whisper why we do it all.  The group of us join hands to form a fence around the man, protecting him.  I hold paper towels in each hand to avoid making contact with the others.  It’s all for naught because the man disappears.

Afterward, I am walking through a large room filled with boisterous children and teens.  One teen jumps on a table and begins shouting or singing.  I notice I’m wearing polka dots in pink and white, and I have a matching pendant with a black accent.  I recall having doubts about my preference for matching black & white polka dots with pink & white polka dots.  I enter a shop with wall-to-wall costume jewelry and proceed to shop for a new necklace to go with my pink & white polka dot clothing.  I am interrupted by my husband, who wants to join me, but I want to shop at my leisure, not in a rush.  I try to shake him, but he wants to leave and find a place for us to eat out.  I don’t want to leave the shop.  A salesman appears who isn’t sure whether to stay with me or to go with my husband.


I am in a college classroom, lying on a table like a gurney.  I’m the subject of a demonstration of a ritual, vaguely and loosely anthropological.  My professor is a man at first.  He’s thin and nervous.  He has a collection of long, torn strips of cloth that he and I are supposed to wrap around my limbs.   He has a large, wooden bowl with a large, wooden spoon filled with a gluey substance.   Once I am shrouded in these long, cloth strips, he’s going to dribble the gluey substance on the cloth to make a crust or cocoon.

The man is switched out for a woman professor.  She’s nervous, too, especially about making sure her colleagues are present for the demonstration.  She has something to prove, I suppose.  While I am on the table, awkwardly winding these strips of cloth around my arms and legs, she is elsewhere in the college talking other professors into attending the ritual.  I chat with the other students, who are all men, all dads.  I tell them I’m only involved in this ridiculous demonstration because I missed class last week when it was enacted with another student.  I’m only trying to catch up on the material I missed.  All these dads have their sons with them, boys of all shapes and sizes with various hair types and colors.  One boy has a fuzzy, irregular buzz cut.  I brush my hand across his hair.  Another kid says something about my eyebrows being weird.

I’m on my feet now, the ritual nothing but a memory as I speak with the men and boys.  A man in a cowboy hat approaches me.  Although he’s wearing a hat, I can see that his hair is vaguely red and must have been much redder when he was younger.  He stands close to me, and I say quietly that I had two sons much like these with their dads, but that they are grown men now.  Piercingly, he looks at me and asks with growing excitement, “You were the wife of ____?”  [I wish I could remember the name of the man he mentions, but I simply can't.]  As he asks, I now recognize him as he has recognized me from an earlier time in our lives.  At that time, he was not overly significant, but he’s now all that is left of that former life, a time I had nearly forgotten and had certainly put behind me.  I answer, “Yes….”  Then I recall his name and say it, “Copperhead!”

I put my arms around the man.  I can’t believe it’s really him, Copperhead.  He is a little younger than me, about five years, but firmly a part of that group of people around whom my life revolved at one time.  Nostalgia overwhelms me.   He is achingly important, both as a representative of the past and for going forward.

There is a transition to the streets, which are dusty.  Everything is sepia colored, and the buildings are clapboard.  Copperhead and other men talk about the war.  I ask, “What is the year?”  When I don’t get an answer, I grow more insistent and frantic.  “What year is it?  The war may be over!  We win the war!”  I go on for some time like this, trying to find out the year.  I shuffle some newspapers, but I don’t see a date.  I find a paper calendar, but I have to pass it to Copperhead to read because, through dependence on my phone to know the date, I have lost the ability to read a paper calendar.  I still don’t get an answer.

I try to convince those around me that we won the war and that it’s perfectly safe to travel to Germany now.  I tell them I went to Munich as a tourist, that it was cheerful with “Oompah music” and beerhalls.  As silly as it all is, still enjoyable.  I tell them it’s safe even to travel to Berlin.  No one questions me, but neither do I ever learn the year.

Then I am walking amidst a crowd of relaxed, little groups of people all walking the same direction along a wide sidewalk or pedestrian avenue.  I pause because I realize I have lost Copperhead.  Slowly, afraid to hope I’ll find him, bracing myself for the terrible disappointment and the grind of going forward in life without him, I look around, scanning the faces for him.  I have turned nearly 360° and not found him.  Just as I am about to give up, I spot his lean figure hurrying toward me.  Then he’s with me, and he says, “It’s okay.  I’m here.”


So this was the second of three dreams last night of the type I call Animus dreams, intense ones at that, stirring the sensation motif I call Oneness.  I have them occasionally, but not as persistently as last night.  They came one after another, and I had no other dreams that I remember.  These were definitely the good Animus kind.  Also, not the only ones I’ve had recently, This Should be Russia.

Games Lovers Play

As usual, when I place words in quotation marks, it means I remember those words exactly or nearly exactly.

The Dream:  I am walking in a shopping mall with either my son or daughter, who is in his/her early teens.  As we walk, I keep seeing female couples shopping together in the mall, and they all seem so happy.  It makes me sad for myself, so I am weeping as we walk.

I go into a perfume shop and purchase perfume in a strange bottle.  The glass is dark and crumbly like a dark granite.  The merchant removes the top part of this stony bottle from the bottom vessel part and packs the two pieces separately in a box.  About this time that I am taking the bottle out of the shop, a person comes to me, taunting me about finding a female lover.  In tears, I ask if this is a game that s/he is playing with me.  Crying, I say, “…because it’s not a game for me.”

Either I or my son/daughter compares my tears to the blue gem in a sapphire ring.  The comparison comes either in the perfume shop or moments later when we are in a bus full of people.

Shortly, we exit the bus, and I begin a long walk alone on an asphalt path (like a bike path) with a gradual slope downward through a desolate landscape piled with reddish boulders of various shapes like rocks tumbled down from a massive quarry.  At a great distance, there is a fortress of stone, perhaps a barrier in front of it, but it’s all so far away that I can’t be sure.

I sense the presence of armed guards on patrol along the asphalt path, and I don’t want to be seen.  I look around for a place to hide and settle on scrambling under a wobbly boulder supported by others such to form a space below.  It’s not a very good, hiding place, but it suffices for when the guards pass.

When they are gone, I look for a better place to hide and settle this time on hiding in the open.  I try to align my limbs with the lines of the terrain and remain very still.  “Hiding in plain sight,” I call this.  Beside me, nearly brushing my bare arm at times, is a guard, a young man.  I’m holding my breath, hoping I won’t be discovered.  I enter a different state of gravity and magnetism with a sense of anticipation.  This waiting ends as the man quietly slips his arms around me, discovering me in this way.  The soft, tingling sensations remain, heightened by the embrace.

From a stairwell, a group of boisterous children come tumbling down.  The man and I, still entwined, have a brief, memorable conversation.  He says, “I have to go.  My wife waits.”  I reply, “You just broke my heart.  Make love to me before we part.”  [Yes, I rhymed. ::sheepish:: ]He answers, “Of course, I will.”

Now he stands and  is undressing.  I am nude below a blanket and sheets.  I tell the man we should go up the stairs to a bedroom so we have privacy from the children.

Infection and Starry Light in a Black Ether

I’m in a house with a number of other people, probably male, maybe family.  I’m the only one aware of an infection spread by the touch of someone, a person outside the family.  These intruders touch some of my family members, infecting them.  They pass me, touching me as they did the others, but I am immune.  I’m the only one who isn’t getting sick.   I shout, trying to warn the others.  “Don’t let them talk to you!  Don’t let them touch you!”  The others are not responding with the alarm they should, so I am worried they have not heard me or have not taken me seriously.

I rush outside where I start to do pull-ups with one arm from a tree branch.  I keep looking for a suitable, horizontal branch to hold my weight.  I try a few until finding one from which I do more one-handed pull-ups while brushing my teeth with the other hand.

From where I am hanging from the branch, I can see a stairwell.  On the stairs, I see a plastic vial in which a bacterial culture is growing.  Everywhere I look now, there are cultures growing.

In a later dream period, I look into the sky and see a white light that is too bright to be any of the stars with which I am familiar.  It shines as if through black matter, as if darkness is made of ether, as if through a hole in the night sky.  The pure white radiance is brilliant and beautiful, and it gives me a good feeling to gaze on it.

Nuclear Fire Spawns King Kong

I’m a teacher.  I go into the school office because I need to pick up something, but I can’t remember what it is.  Administrators and other teachers in the office watch me as I stand there confused,  trying to remember why I came in and what I want.  I pick up a random package, hoping it is the thing I came into the office to get.

In the hallway, I am holding a white, plastic sack shaped like a triangle.  It is folded in half and holds decorating streamers and artificial flowers.  Rosebuds stick out one end.  I sit on a wooden bench in the hallway next to a student.  As I sit there, crowds of students are walking by in the hallway, and one of the students, a black girl, seems to pull one of the rosebuds from the bag, but I’m not completely sure that she did, at least not sure enough to blame her for it.

From where I sit, I can see through an enormous, plate glass window to the outside campus.  I see a tall, brick building with many windows, situated so that I am looking straight on to a corner of the building.  This tall building is on fire, flames shooting out the windows, especially near the corner I face.  The fire is very hot, described as a “nuclear fire” as if fueled by nuclear radiation.

I want to take a picture of the fire, but I don’t have my phone with me so I have to walk back to my classroom, where I remember my phone is in my purse.  Now in a new hallway where I am walking to my classroom, I see the same building on fire through another enormous, plate glass window.  The flames have spread, engulfing the entire building.  Out of the nuclear fire, King Kong emerges!

There is a general scramble of panic from my building as King Kong approaches, snatching people from the ground as he comes and eating them like snacks.  I, too, run outside and try to hide.  I look all around for a place to conceal myself, but can only find a little corner between two, stone benches.  I hope that this niche obscures my outline as I crouch face down in the angle.  As I cower, I peek out and see King Kong has progressed to my side of the building.  I think he is going to go past, but seems to change his mind at the last moment and, instead, turns in my direction.  At this point, I am wearing round-rimmed eyeglasses, which I fear will glint in the light, drawing King Kong’s attention, so I quickly lower my face to conceal my glasses.

Finally, he goes on.  In his wake, people are taking out their phones to snap pics of him.  I, too, want to take a phone pic, but I’m afraid my flash might draw his attention.  After a few moments of being too scared to take a picture, I join the crowd snapping photos.  My nephew joins me, and I comment to him, “This is amazing (or astounding), C!”  When I speak, my voice echoes through my phone because I left my camera on.

King Kong starts on the move again, and the crowd of photo-takers is running after, including my nephew and myself, all of us trying to keep King Kong in sight and snapping pictures of him.

This Should be Russia

There seem to be degrees of dreams from small to big.  The big dreams tend to be more memorable because they are dramatic.  I think some people recall only the big dreams.  Recalling small dreams is more of a skill.  One way to learn is to practice the techniques of dream recall on the big dreams and, eventually, recall becomes better for small dreams.  In my case, if I don’t practice, my skill diminishes.  I have to keep it honed.  That’s why I report the small dreams as well and as consistently as I can muster my interest in them.  The longer the interval between big dreams, the harder it is to continue to record small dreams.  My enthusiasm wavers.  Last night, though, there was a big dream after a long period of small dreams.  Not the big, ecstatic dream type that sends my life catapulting into different directions, but one large enough to grab my attention and excite me again.

The Dream:  I’m not sure of the setting.  There are counters, long tables, and a corridor leading to a foyer with glass doors.   The place has a subdued atmosphere and carpeting like an office or bank.  President Obama enters this place.  It’s an honor and a surprise.  I and a man (someone I know from ages ago named Tim.  I can’t recall his last name.) hurry to make preparations for President Obama’s meeting with Leonid Brezhnev (Older readers will remember him as the longtime Russian leader of the 60s and 70s.  He’s dead many years now, of course.).

As part of what I have to do, I spread a long sheet of plastic over a map on a table.  I staple it down and spread another sheet and staple that down, too.  Brezhnev doesn’t have any help preparing because he didn’t have enough money to pay for an aide.  Tim and I take care of everything.  President Obama leaves the building through the glass doors.  I think he has gone to purchase donuts.  In any case, only Tim and I are there when two men in suits enter.  One is a large man, one is younger and slender.  He vaguely reminds me of Krycek (X-files, before he lost an arm.  Some readers might recall that Krycek was the son of Russian immigrants during the Cold War.)

I’m afraid the men represent a threat to the president, so I look at Tim, hoping he will understand that he needs to go find the president to warn him.  I’m afraid the two men will see what I’m saying, but they don’t, and Tim is allowed to leave the building.

Tim must have succeeded in delivering a warning because police enter the building.  The larger man in a suit is arrested.  Apparently, the police and the president believe he was the major threat.  The younger, slender man is allowed to go free.  I try to persuade a policeman that the young man has to be arrested.  I tag along beside the head of the police, dragging on his arm, making arguments about how the young man will change my life, alter my relationships and, in general, create chaos for me and maybe others if left free. The policeman finally relents and prepares to arrest the young man in the suit, but the man has fled.

The policeman and I search for him.  We are always running just a few steps behind, but unable to see him.  We chase him across a gravel parking lot and reach his car, probably just in time to scare him off.  The car trunk is open wide, the keys to the car still in the lock.  The man’s soft baggage is still there, although the main compartment of the bag is empty.  I take the baggage with its few, remaining items.  I pull the keys from the lock on the trunk and also take possession of the car.

I’m resigned now to having lost the young man and am walking back to my place of employment, an office.  On the way, I pass an opening to a watery place underground.  The young man in the suit is in the water at the bottom.  He calls up to me, asking me why I would want him pursued and arrested.  He insists I was his best student of the Russian language at one time.  I’m fairly indignant about what I believe is either a lie or something I don’t want to believe.  I shout at him that I never spoke Russian and was never in Russia.  He insists I was in Russia, not in Africa as I believe I was.

I leave the man behind me.  In the office where I work, I look more closely at the bag and the empty compartment, which is stiff and rectangular, and surmise that it held a computer and that the man must have gotten away with it but not had time to do anything else.  I now consider the car, which is still registered to the man in the suit.  I want to own it officially, but cannot think how to transfer ownership of a vehicle that is essentially stolen property.  It’s a problem.

Next is an intervening dream sequence in which I am dead, but have come back to life temporarily to organize the arrangements of my death.  Most specifically, I am trying to have my picture framed properly.  The picture is printed on a puzzle, and the puzzle pieces keep coming apart.  I try to get someone to glue them down properly and add a frame.  While I struggle with these puzzle pieces, I notice that another dead woman has had her name engraved on a headstone so she doesn’t have this dilemma.

The death interval ends, and I am in a grocery store reading the back of a plastic package containg hemp seeds advertised as snack food.  A young woman named Van (someone I knew a long while ago) approaches me in the grocery aisle.  She’s with me when I see the young man in the suit again.  Also there is Rusty (yet another person I knew a long time ago.  In the few dreams in which he has appeared, he’s usually ultra-cool, yet achingly vulnerable, as he vaguely is now.)  When the young man in the suit appears, he’s wearing a casual jacket now.  Rusty is also wearing a jacket, but his is leather.  He’s trying to sell it, and the young man wants to buy it.  They make the deal and the young man puts on the leather jacket.

I notice there’s a problem.  The leather jacket has big numbers, the sale price of 65, written on it in several places.  They might be written directly on the leather or on tape applied to the leather.  I try to peel the numbers off, but they won’t release.

The young man speaks to me again, repeating what he said before, that I was his best Russian student.  Argumentative, I disagree with him again.  We look at each other intensely.  Six foot or better, he’s several inches taller than me, and his eyes are bright, maybe blue, probably gray.  Dramatically, he accuses me of wanting to run off to Africa again, probably Morocco.  He says that all I want to do is climb that windy crag and wait for my lover as I did before.  His words invoke an exhilarating vision of the craggy rocks, a stiff breeze, and myself in heightened anticipation.   I know it’s true, that this is exactly what I want to do.  I have a sense that he feels betrayed and should be the lover for which I am waiting, yet the scenario takes place in Africa while the young man insists this should all be Russian.  I don’t understand.


Plethora and Swimming

There was much more than this on my night recording, but I can’t understand half of what I am saying!

First Dream Scenarios:  Standing on a high area of a riverbank or, maybe, viewing the river from my back deck, I see a family on the far side.  They are on an outing, relaxing on a sandy place along the bank.  Their children are playing on a swing set.  On my side of the river, there is a child sitting in a complicated rope swing hanging from a sturdy tree.  I don’t like the intrusion of the family across the river and, especially, don’t like the child on my side.

I’m now in a plowed field near the same river.  Several of my cousins are there, the composition of the group changing as the dream and our walk progresses across the field into the house.  I invite the cousins in to my mom’s kitchen to have treats.  The kitchen is a mess.  I find a few pieces of heavenly cake with thick, dreamy-white icing, but there is not enough for all my cousins.  I give it out anyway, and everyone seems to get as much as they want.  Rifling through some kitchen drawers, I find my mom’s candy stash, chocolates.  I’m worried because I’m afraid she is getting fat on sweets.

In another house now, possibly mine at some time though it has become a bunker or stronghold and no longer my own house.  I sift through some junk drawers and find .22 caliber bullets in among the broken crayons, etc.  I collect the bullets and put them in a clear pill bottle.  There’s a need to be armed.  Everyone else in the house is armed, but I am not, so a couple of women search for a weapon for me to use.  They find an “electric” gun and show me how it works.  It receives the .22 bullet, shaves it off and positions it for firing.  They caution me that the “electric” gun gets hot so you have to be careful handling it or you’ll burn your hand.

I am in a woods now.  At the top of a small hill, I look down and see a horse near the bottom of the hill.  It is off its feet, thrashing, dying.  It needs a vet.  Flash forward to conversation with a vet at a booth in a café.  The veterinarian, a man, tells me the horse is dying because of stupid Americans.  I bury my face in my hands and cry and cry, but I don’t feel very hurt.  The tears don’t feel authentic although I feel and regret that it is my fault the horse is suffering.

I’m indoors now while taking care of some children, a baby and a little girl.  I go with the little girl to dance on a large, wooden floor, a dance floor.  I wet her socks so she won’t slide so much.  I tell another woman the little girl would make a good actress because she has a good memory for recalling her lines.  The little girl doesn’t like anyone saying this because she doesn’t want to be an actress.


Later Dream Scenario:  I walk and talk with a man about a game we are planning to play.  We decide how we want to proceed.  His plan is to take over my countries, but the question is whether to support me initially as I build the nation as six separate countries in order to attack them as smaller units or to delay his attack until I unite them as one and attack the single, larger nation.  It’s an interesting scenario, and we enjoy working it out.

Once we have organized, he takes a leap from a high place above a water canal, splashing down into the clear water below.  I love to swim in the water and want to join him, but I don’t think I can accomplish the same leap without hurting myself.  Instead, I walk down to the water’s edge.  I take off my vest, my shoes, and my necklace, giving them to my sister before slipping into the flowing water of the canal.  I now have two choices, either to swim upstream toward the city or downstream in a spiral toward the castle.

I now recognize the world as one filled with activities and games, something fun to do all the time.  People are nearly always out of their houses involved in an activity and enjoying themselves.  When I swim by a small group of young women, one of them says something mean about my swimming activity.  This strikes me as out of place in this world where everyone is having a good time so I am particularly offended.  I come up behind the girl, grab her ponytail, and pull her head backward, smacking her head on a railing several times.  Her friends, of course, sympathize with her.  I am told that one of them has lung cancer.  I’m supposed to feel bad about the cancer and about smacking the ponytail girl’s head, but I don’t especially.  I swim on.

The canal passes into a long kitchen of a cafeteria.  I’m swimming through the kitchen as through the air until I come up against a large, soda-vending machine blocking the path.  I’m not happy about being blocked, and I tell the staff that I’m not going to swim through here anymore.  One of them says I will, but I insist that I won’t.  I tell them that I never went walking along a walkway that had a blockage and that I won’t swim through a swimway with one.  I turn around to leave the kitchens, swimming back the way I came, but not before trying to steal a muffin/cupcake from the vending machine.  That doesn’t work, but I see cookies on either side of the long kitchen as I exit.  I snatch and eat them as I go along.  They’re delicious!


Purple Crystals and Singing in the Rain

I’m at the top of a steep, chalky slope.  Two, stony sides narrow to form a crumbly channel.  I begin the descent between the sloping sides.  As I go down, I notice the white, chalky walls are rich with marine fossils.  Here and there are embedded crystals.  At the bottom, there is a tourist stop with bathrooms, gift shop, parking, etc.  It is located next to a pit full of enormous, purple crystals of dazzling beauty that is a big, tourist draw.  I plan to use the bathrooms, but when I get in there and see how disgusting they are, I decide against it.

Meanwhile, there is a little boy who offers me a stick of gum from his pack.  I tell him I don’t want any.  He finds a cat and asks me if he can keep it.  I say that as long as I live there, he cannot.  His uncle, who is my BIL, gives me a hostile look as if to say he’ll decide what happens in his house, not anyone else.

I look inside a trellised enclosure (like a strawberry house).  It has been neglected so it’s full of fallen leaves and spiders.  Nevertheless, prickly pear cacti have grown up in the sun entering through a gap in the dilapidated roof.  The cacti have formed fruits, which have been left on the plant a long time, so long that they have fallen from the plants on their own.  They are powdery red, enormous and, oddly, have no spines.  I pick them up in my arms, gathering them to make into jelly and noting with delight that the fruits are spineless, which I attribute to being allowed to ripen longer than usual.

It begins to storm, and I have to run.  My huge armload of fruits slows me down so I leave them behind.  The sky is dark and cloudy, and there is wind and thunder.  I begin to sing very loudly as I run.  The singing is nearly as strong as the thunder and matches it somehow.  It’s very good singing at first, but as I reach a shelter, the notes become off-key and weaker.

Avoiding Nightmare

I’m a man throughout and in a dark, water-filled dungeon going from room to room avoiding a nightmarish, unseen, soft, black “entity” in the water.  The water level changes, now higher, now lower.  I try to get above the water by perching on a tiny ledge in the rock.  The water drops enough to expose a small, basement window.  I knock out the screen/glass and crawl to the outdoors.  I’m in a pasture now, but it is crossed by wire fences of different gauges.  I climb over one, then another, then another, five or six of them, until I reach a dirt road.  I vaguely perceive a woman with me, who is my traveling companion.  Across the open fields, we can see a police car on the highway driving toward us.  We think we have to run, but we are too slow getting over the fence along the road.  When the policeman stops and gets out of his car, we discover he’s quite friendly and so is the farmer from the farm across the field.  Despite my fears, everything is quite alright.