Vietnamese Baby, and Brown Mod Dress


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I had a small baby in my arms, very cute, a little boy, and he began to give greetings to my friends in the room.  He greeted a man who was his father, and the man and I were delighted and amazed to hear our little baby talk.  It was actually a minute or two before I realized there was anything odd about a talking baby, then I remembered they didn’t learn that skill until they were older.  Then my little boy baby greeted another man and reached his arms out wanting to give the man a hug as well.  The baby’s greeting was rather long, something like, “Hello, I’m so glad to meet you.”  I was very proud and pleased.  I held the baby upright, bouncing him affectionately, and he randomly said, “Nao,” which I somehow knew was Vietnamese.  I looked at the boy’s father in surprise and exclaimed, “He speaks Vietnamese, too!”  Now when I peered at the baby boy’s face, I realized he had Vietnamese ancestry.  Oh, there was nothing about the look of the boy’s face which told me that.  I just somehow knew.  And because the second man in the room that the boy had greeted was Vietnamese, I asked that man if he would continue to speak his language with the baby so that the child would grow up speaking both English and Vietnamese.

In another dream, I was in a mall.  My son, who was about eleven, was running around with his friends.  I kept trying to find him in the crowd so I could give him money for food.  I finally did, and he ran off again with his friends.

I was looking through the mall, too, mostly at restaurants.  From the door, I looked in and saw an enormous, beige bag under a table on the floor and realized it was mine that I had left behind.  I tried to push past the customers to retrieve it, but getting through was difficult because so many people kept getting in my way.  I finally did get my bag.

The meaning of my wandering changed, and I realized I worked in the mall.  I was studying the fashions and accessories for sale.  I saw a woman in an outrageous dress (which I’ll describe in a moment), and I knew she must be a famous  fashion designer or stylist.  I went on with my work and back to my office where I had a typewriter I needed to fix.  Two large keys had fallen off and were on the floor.  I had to find them amidst a great number of brightly-colored, paper shopping bags and tissue.  I finally got one of the keys back on the typewriter and was testing it when I realized I didn’t need the other key because this one contained all the functions required.  It could type all the letters, fonts, spellcheck, etc.

Someone saw that I had a paper bag of food from someone named “Dale.”  The bag was on the workroom refrigerator, and I had been saving it for my lunch.  I called across the room that Dale was my uncle, then a woman in a group of ladies attempted to tease me by asking if Dale wasn’t really my boyfriend.  I said quite matter-of-factly that he was my uncle.  I must have been a little dumb because I did not rise to the teasing.

I wanted very much to get my food, but I had so much work to do and people kept bringing me accessories to study.  I had to carry all these new bags and bangles to my desk to strip them off my arms, and I wondered if I was supposed to keep the new bags for myself, a kind of gift in exchange for good reviews.

I freed myself of the bags and when I turned back to the front of the workroom which opened on the mall, the woman in the outrageous dress was there.  I had earlier had the opportunity to say I liked her dress very much, but now she let me study it quite closely.  I admit that I gushed, examining every small detail and exclaiming all the while how I loved it.  The dress was an A-line cut about mid-thigh.  The fabric was sheer except for large, randomly-sized, brown polka dots.  Across the bodice was an embroidered pattern, the shape of which I can’t describe, but it had a vague resemblance, I thought as I passed my hand across it, of flower petals, and I told the woman that, speaking in my most analytical voice.  I was all study and business now.  I pointed out the clever way the seam lines were incorporated into the design.  Then I oohed-and-aahed over the tiny, red lingerie she wore under the sheer fabric.  The red and brown seemed quite mod and just perfect.

Now, as when I first saw the dress, I was dying to make one addition, but I really didn’t want to offend the famous designer so I mentioned it somewhat apologetically and asked if I could make a suggestion.  She was very supportive, and I said it might look good to add a green accessory in the same shade level as the red and brown, a bangle or large, acrylic hoop earrings.  A woman standing beside me agreed this would be perfect, and the fashion designer was really excited about the idea.  The designer in the dress was standing right in front of a display of accessories of just the green I was thinking so we were able to see it would look great.





Stones, and Skirts


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Where to begin?  I’m pretty sure I remember these scenes out of order.  Perhaps the train traveled to the mall, but maybe the escalator in the mall traveled to the train.  I ‘m not sure it matters.

I am on a train in a passenger coach in the Old West.  The men wear cowboy hats and chaps and maybe holsters.  We come to a station, and I get off as do a lot of the other passengers.  I had expected to be the only one staying at this station, but only a small group of people enter a single train coach (modern-looking from my exterior viewpoint) and leave the station.  The majority of us filter into an open-sided great-hall/auditorium where rows of long, display tables are arranged.

There’s a bit of bustle as the other people, mostly all men (I don’t specifically recall any women.) spread their wares out for sale on the tables.  I also spread out some wares and see that I’m displaying a small collection of stones, some polished, some chalky with fossils.  My collection is small and not particularly interesting, and those around me have much more substantial collections as though they are professionals and I am merely an amateur.  I don’t mind so much and assume I will learn a lot.

An elderly man approaches my table with a handful of baubles that he would like to trade for a stone(s) I have.  I’m willing to look at what he has to offer, and I remind myself how much men enjoy the Process of trading and to let the older man take his time going back and forth about the deal.  It’s not too hard to pretend I care about the bargaining because I enjoy looking through the many stones and crystals he has.  He’s an old professional with lots of experience and has a great collection although he only does this now for fun, not really for profit.

He warms to the process because of my interest and begins to show me more and more of what he has.  He moves around a wall with a window through which I can see.  Outside, he approaches an enormous broken shell of stone crusted with amethyst crystals as large as a man’s head.  I watch as he breaks off some of the crystals to bring back to show me.  I keep wanting to tell him how special the amethyst is because it’s my birthstone, but I can never seem to get it out.

I watch the old man walk to a workbench and pick up an axe.  I think he’s going to break apart some of the crystals into tradable size.  I look away from what he’s doing for a moment and next I know he’s back at my table holding slices of the stones.  I’m very unhappy that the beautiful crystals have been sliced up, and I’ve lost all interest in owning them.

Meanwhile, I have been continually having trouble tracking my wares.  They keep being shuffled around and, at one point, they are all gone.  Alarmed, I look to another table and see that they have only been wrapped up in a cloth and pulled aside because the tabletops were supposed to be clear for something.  No idea why.  I try not to let it bother me, this fiddling with my property.

There’s a time when I’m in a swimming pool, the kind above ground that people put up for the summer in their backyards for the kids.  The pool is crowded with adults.  We’re all wedged in.  I’m in a corner of the pool against the side.  I yell a comment about someone in a far corner of the pool, some judgment on their looks.   It’s really awkward because no one else is talking.  I try to shrug it off because the statement was actually true.

Later (or before the train), I’m in a dorm that’s also a mall with stairs (or escalator), and it’s Valentine’s Day.  The hallways and staircases are crowded with large boxes of candy and rolls and rolls of wrapping paper.  As I walk around, I’m grabbing as much gift wrap as I can carry, specifically picking out the more generic patterns so I can use them for other holidays.  At the top of a staircase, there’s a common plaza-like area.  Entertainment booths have been set up for the Valentine holiday.  Traveling through the rope trail, I see that people are having their hair dusted red with something like red-dyed confectioner’s sugar.  I don’t want to be dusted, something about getting it in my eyes, so I shy away from the place.

Again, before and after are confused.  I walk from the display tables of stones (or from the swimming pool) to another table beyond a wall.  Instead of men with their collections, there’s a black woman seated at a table.  I notice her white blouse is a lot like mine, a sort of Old West bodice laced up the front.  She stands so I can look more closely at her  pale-blue skirt, which is not really a skirt, but a pair of extremely blousy pants with a fairly low inseam.  It’s not so low that its hard to walk, and the pants are so nearly a skirt that it would not much matter.  There are two more straps between the legs below the inseam, which lowers the connection even further, but still not enough to hinder easy movement.  Although our white, corset blouses are a lot alike, our skirts are nothing alike, which I mention.  (As in most of my clothing dreams, there’s concentrated focus on the cuts and colors of the garments as if someone has dialed a microscope into focus on just the clothing and then examined it with great interest for an extended period of dreamtime.)

I look at myself in a full-length mirror, do a little twirl, and see how my shirt and skirt both have a red-and-blue, handkerchief construction.  I complain that my clothes look like a tall, walking collection of handkerchiefs.  I see in the other woman’s eyes that it’s true, but she’s nice enough to tell me I’m wrong.

Fleeing, and The Ball Gowns


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I’m in a flat dreamscape with large, square buildings jutting up from the ground at random intervals of space.  I’m fleeing something, maybe a military group.  I join up with a group of people that I am trying to lead to safety.  We run and take refuge behind a building and then run again and hide again, making our way across the flat landscape.  There is definitely a military presence now in pursuit.  Another person, a man, takes command of the vehicle in which we now all find ourselves.  He’s driving recklessly and is about to crash us into a building.  I shout at him, berating him for putting all our lives in danger.

The scene shifts, and I am entering a building.  A woman who is supposed to be my mother is there, and she’s helping me choose a gown for a social event.  I’ve picked out layers of clothing in ecru and off-white, a blouse, a jacket, a long skirt, all of it ornately appliqued, ecru on ecru.  The woman doesn’t like it, and I try to explain that I think the complexity of pattern will be a nice counterpoint to the lack of color.  She still doesn’t agree and encourages me to try something else.

I don’t know what that something else is until I see myself entering the party wearing a divinely blue long skirt.  (The blue had a touch of green, but not quite teal.  It was so beautiful.)  The skirt is chiffon and flows like it.  Lovely.  I’m wearing a separate blouse, also blue, but a shade lighter than the skirt.  The blouse has a circle collar around the neck and neither sleeves nor back.  It drapes and pleats simply in the front.  My waist is cinched with a black, velvet belt with long, slender panels down the front of the skirt.  The black against the shades of pale teal blue is striking.  I realize my mother was right, that this is far more beautiful than what I had chosen.

I also see my mother, who has chosen to wear a beautiful gown in pale peach colors.  I like it nearly as much as my own, but nothing could be as lovely as that blue.

Gold Wine, and Green Suit


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Fragments…going to a crowded bar with a friend.  She orders wine that is served in a glass beer stein.  It’s golden.  She says it doesn’t have any alcohol.  I taste it, too, and agree.  I warn her that this is the most dangerous kind because she’ll drink a great amount without realizing she is overdoing it.  There’s a man there who agrees with me.

Someone has told me, their mother, that I should divorce my second husband, and I did it.  I was happy, but I thought that the ‘someone’ knew something I didn’t.  The husband wore a shiny, green mylar suit and after I divorced him, I realized I had made a mistake, but it was too late.  I was already married to a third man in a dark red suit and black shirt.

House, Costumes, and Dancing


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I dreamed of a house again, my house.  There was, as usual, room after room after room, mostly bedrooms and living rooms.  I say to someone, “so many living rooms.”  The house is ultra-clean except for great piles of clothes in some rooms.  In one room, there are so many clothes, the pile blocks the exit.  I had to dive over the clothes to get out.  I was showing someone around, thus the above comment about so many living rooms.

Then the house is a temporary dorm for a football team (high school or university-not pro).  I’m a quasi-mascot, like a team mother except that I’m more like a team-sister.  I’ve made the sleeping assignments in different buildings at the campus.  The juniors and seniors have larger beds, almost twins.  The young guys are in another building with little more than cots.

The team members are milling around in the building which now looks like a lodge.  (Picture the lodge at Yellowstone, if you’ve ever seen that.)  The beds are off to one side, and there is a large, cleared area that I discover is for dancing.  A senior of the team, a captain?, takes me on the dance floor to dance ballroom-style.  No one else is dancing, but they all start when we initiate it.  At first, I am wearing a long, royal blue, chiffon gown, and the young man is in a royal blue suit.  My chiffon twirls around us as we dance.  He’s a terrible dancer.  It’s hard to keep with him.  The gown is now burgundy, still twirling.

The dancing stops, and I enter a smaller room in the same building.  Here, I am with some theatrical people, dancers and actors and a costumer/stylist.  I dance with the dancers.  Talk with the actors.  The stylist is bringing me costumes to try.  I’m wearing a fur stole of many colors, neon pink, orange, and purple.  It’s luxurious and bright.  I also wear a hot pink, billowy and light scarf and a ball gown the same color.  The stylist scurries off to find more for me to try.

One of the football players comes in and sees me dancing with two male dancers, which makes me feel as if I’ve done something wrong.  I tell him that the first young man, the captain?, is welcome to come and dance with me instead.

Alien Invasion


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An invasion of Earth by aliens….I have to save our animals.  I don’t know where I’m going, only know I want to gather up my chickens and dogs, but I can’t carry them all.  My heart is breaking because I have to leave some of them behind.  I am flying over the farm property.  I scoop up my most beloved, my dog Zoe.  I fly with her cradled in my arms.  I keep looking back at my hens, grieving the loss.

Another scene when I’m in the yard with my family.  I see an alien craft and hear alarms about them.  I run to warn my family.  We have to get inside the house, hide.  We scramble indoors and then several people enter a basement down a ladder.  There is confusion about picking up guns to take with us.  I think I’ve left a gun in my truck, and I want it.  My sister and I head back out of the shelter of our house.  Side by side, we face an alien who enters the hallway.  He’s very tall, 10 foot at least. My sister and I back up at first, both of us boldly making insulting finger gestures with both hands.

The alien has a rope with which he threatens to bind us.  My dream focuses on the rope, which is like the lariats that cowboys use (for those who don’t know, lariats have an extremely stiff end and a bit of leather to help hold the rope in a circular shape).  One end is clean and white like it’s new.  The other end is darker like it’s been wet or dirty.  As the giant alien unfurls it, I can’t help but mock him for his crude equipment.  A cowboy rope?  Really? Really?  A lot of my fear disappears when I see the rope because it’s not alien or scary, just an ordinary rope.

At one point, my sister goes to sleep or becomes unconscious.  She’s stuck to me so I carry her weight.

Speed, Color, and Hybrids


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I am riding a blue unicycle down Ridge Road (the main thoroughfare leading to my childhood home), and my toddler son is on my back, but not in a harness, just hanging on while I ride the cycle.  We’re going very fast, the wind rushing past.  We are passing cars at great speeds, and I worry we might be attracting too much attention.  I don’t want to get a speeding ticket, so I try to slow down, but the brake, a bar under the seat that I press, isn’t responding.  We’re riding at about 110 mph, which probably looks reckless, and I imagine other drivers are thinking that my son is in danger, although I don’t feel so at all.  I just don’t want a ticket.  We pass a police car driving the other direction.  I’m worried that his lights came on, but I’m not sure.  Then we see another, and I keep riding at a ridiculous speed, now hoping that I can get somewhere to slow down and get away.

I see a multi-tiered, balcony restaurant.  There are crowds of diners on the verandahs.  The balconies have handholds, and I am able to grab onto them to slow down the unicycle.  I’m looking for a way to blend in.  I see my aunt and my cousin seated in a row of auditorium-like seats.  They see me first before I recognize them.  We greet, but I have to get moving, farther into the crowd.

In another dream, I am in a cafeteria setting.  There are many people seated at the tables, some of them doing schoolwork at first, but later they are eating or just listening to a lecturer.  One of my classmates in the room has brilliant blue eyes, and she has put lavender eyeshadow on her lids and lavender lipstick on her lips.  The hues pick up the lavender in the blue of her eyes.  It’s beautiful.  In addition, she is standing in front of a taller girl wearing a lavender shirt.  The whole effect is quite stunning.  I compliment her on her beauty.  My attention shifts to the taller girl.   She has long hair (unknown color) and fantastic, curving horns.  She is wearing a headdress that she made herself.  It appears to be a multi-colored, lacquered paper-mache.  It fits smoothly on her horns and then on her head in a little skull cap.  Red was the predominant color, but not the only one.  She was no less beautiful than the blue-eyed girl, but very different.

A professor pops his head into the door of the crowded, cafeteria-like room and hails a girl who is tucked way in the back corner on the floor behind a table full of students or diners.  He tells her that her shirt is unattractive.  The shirt is actually unattractive, a large not-quite-brown print that hangs shapelessly.   I hasten to reassure the girl that the man is only offering the feedback that she asked for.  I add, however, that he didn’t have to yell it across the room.  He certainly could have told her later in the hallway.

Later, some of the men at the front dining table are talking about duck hunting.  One of them makes a motion like holding up a shotgun.  That dream morphs into another one where I am on a muddy farm, and a feeble-minded man is pointing a home-made, spring-loaded spear at me.  The weapon is quite clever, but the man is not, and it’s an odd contrast.  I am able, despite the weapon, to poke at the man with a pitchfork and subdue him.  Some other people help me poke him into submission.

I enter a barn to oversee some work that has to be done by the subdued man.  He is supposed to shear a rabbit-sheep hybrid.  Supposedly, this animal will have incredibly, soft wool.  I go into the pen where the hybrid is kept and am horrified by its appearance.  It’s small like a rabbit with whitish, patchwork fur, but has monstrous, unnatural features.  I want nothing to do with this hybridization, regardless of whatever benefit there might be.  I also see some hairless rabbits in the pen which might have been failed attempts at making a hybrid.  The entire thing disgusts me.  I exit the pen and stomp through the barn looking for a man in charge.  I tell him that I don’t want to do this shearing and that if this operation goes on I’ll do something drastic like destroy all these hybrids in an explosion.


Horse and Strawberries


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I’m trying to mount a horse, but it only appears when I am seated on it.  It is frustrating until I am finally mounted.  I  gallop to the back of a plot of rural property.  There were grasses, fence posts, and a scant, gravel path.  At the back of the property, I am on foot again, and my hair is very dark and long.  I have a male companion who also has very dark hair.  We are a god and goddess and have powers.  We go down into a pit where there is a failing strawberry vine, but the dark-haired god makes the strawberries ripen and grow sweet for me so that I can eat them from the vine.

Frustrating Fireplace Remodel


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In my dream, I am having a fireplace built by two workmen, one older and one younger.  The room is in my house, but it’s also outdoors.  There are walls, but they don’t entirely enclose the space, and there is no roof.  My sister and I are sometimes in and sometimes out of a hot tub/spa that is in the same room while the men work.  I can see them making progress and the bricks beginning to shape the fireplace and hearth.  I become more worried as the plan develops.  At the end of the work day, I evaluate what’s been done, and I’m unhappy.  The firebox is situated in the corner, but the bricks of the hearth extend all along one “wall” of the room.  In addition, it’s up against a row of trees whose boughs cascade over the brick area.  At first, I’m afraid the tree branches will be singed, but then realize the only fire area is in the corner.  Nevertheless, it’s an awful plan to stretch the hearth out so far away from the fireplace.

While I check out the work, the two workmen appear in swim shorts and join us in the hot tub.  This makes me uncomfortable.

My sister and I continue to inspect the room, planning rearrangements to the furniture to accommodate the new fireplace.  I realize the inlets for the cable cords are all in the wrong places now.  This is a terrible inconvenience because I will have to have service people come to the house and move them.

House Security


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I am with my husband traveling along a road (walking or driving?) through a hilly and wooded landscape.  On a hill to our right, there is a sloping clearing, a house at the top surrounded by mature trees at its back.  It is painted all in a dark red.  Presumably, there is a view from the house’s back side toward the river not far away although I am unsure how one sees through all the trees.  My husband asks if I would like to live there as if he might have already bought the house.  I say that I would but I also feel quite attached to the house in which I already live which is situated on the river bank (as in real life).

We come to the river and now have to fly downstream to reach our house.  My wide-brimmed, straw hat flies off and twirls in the wind, unraveling as it goes.  My first impulse is to try to save it, but as it falls apart, I let it go.  I am doing the flying for both of us.  Below, the river is fairly rapid with small, white-capped waves and swirling currents.

Our house is on the riverbank, and it has a flat roof that serves as a patio looking over the river.  Beside our house is another house of the same configuration.  Our neighbors are sitting out on their roof.  One of their children, a little girl, is on our roof.  I have to negotiate a landing so I don’t hit the little girl or land in the stairwell open to the house below.  We make it safely, and I tell the little girl she probably shouldn’t be there when we are gone.

In another dream, my single-story house stretches, perhaps, forever.  As far as I can walk, there are more and more rooms, some of them I have never seen, although I wish I could use them all.  I go into as many doors as I can.  In one door, there is a library against the walls with large, reading tables in the middle of the room.  There are three, teenage boys living in there.  I start to chase them out, but realize I may not be able to get them to leave, so I settle on letting them stay although I am uncomfortable.  I tell them they can stay, but they must stay out of the rest of the house.  I feel as if my security and privacy are compromised.



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