I believe I had something like a good dream last night. At long, long last! For all my science-mindedness, I do give a certain weight to dreams as windows into my subconscious, and this one was pretty dang good.
I couldn't say what the plot was, but it involved my brother and four or five of his friends walking through the college campus near our house, which was also supposed to be my high school, where I was to be in a fashion show that was to be a fund raiser for some worthy cause. And the set up of the fashion show would have been pretty cool, with the models walking out on the kind of palatial balcony Jasmine has in Aladdin (or would have, if I'm remembering it incorrectly). Then there were tables upon tables of fancily dressed patrons watching us from a beautiful courtyard below with little pools and giant potted plants and long table cloths. The fashion show was supposed to be girls from my high school. And I had a lovely dress I was to model, but we ran out of time just before I was to go on stage. A girl from my grade school was chatting with my Brit lit teacher from junior year in a well lit but dark-wooded office-library. And there was a Swede with longish blond hair, blue eyes and a fabulous accent that I think was supposed to be my man-friend. I never get to have man-friends in my dreams!
God, and today sitting out in the park in the sun reading about gel electrophoresis and drawing floral patterns for my flashcards, it was heaven. Even the warm breeze on the bike ride to the book shop and the grocery store was so soft. Delicious. I can't believe it's still technically winter. So much more good weather and sunlight to soak up. Life is good.
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Friday, March 19, 2010
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Metabolism
A dream in which there is a small world contained on a cruise ship. Or a fleet of cruise ships which offer an infinitude of choice. Anything can be changed at any time at your will. You can trade in your cat for a younger cat and younger cat. You can trade in your deck chair. You can choose your food. The shape of your cabin. Colors. Everything. The ship itself can grow and adapt. It can suit your needs.
The ships are run by a company named Google My Army. Except in the cruise ship world, it doesn't say Google as clearly. The words are somehow refracted back so as not to remind you of anything. They make everything on the ship. The clothes have Google My Army tags. They raise the cats. Fluffy white cats. Silky black kittens. Striped cats. Splotchy cats.
There is a marathon going on. One of my cousins is participating. It's some sort of one person at a time marathon that includes a run up the long slide usually used to deliver guests to one of many pools. I would assume you're able to choose the outcome of the marathon. Also participating are the company executives. I believe I was in the employ of one who will, upon finishing the race, assume control of the company. He is young, a man to be feared.
I am wanting to escape. To leave, you need a voucher for the boat taxis that will take you back to land. I am in a small deckside restaurant. A light woven structure with a tiki style bar and stools. There are five or six other patrons. The new president approaches, but I am wearing a hat and glasses so as not to be recognized. It seems it wouldn't matter because he is drunk. In his dark jollity, he stuffs his taxi voucher in the band of my hat because he likes the way it looks, like an old press pass. I am holding a book, some sort of illicit book, but he gives me, the lone stranger, another book he likes to share. I slip the folded taxi voucher into my book and hide it under his, always keeping mine closer to my chest. He is feeling social. The restaurant patrons are quiet and on guard. He has taken an interest in me.
Someone must have wished the restaurant away because the hands of god begin to remove its walls. We can now see the ovens and right off the edge of the ship. We can watch the bartender/cook as he scurries about. I believe there was a roast chicken in the oven. Someone must have ordered it.
The president wants to dance. With me. I don't cross him lest he see through my glasses and recognize my face. He puts his arm snugly around my back. He appears to feel romantic. I hold on to my books. He is tired and cannot find his taxi voucher. His father is calling for the almanac data listed on the taxi voucher. He brings me to his room to search for it. The room is small and messy with two beds. The cook from the restaurant is sleeping motionless face down on the larger bed, feet near the pillows. I think we are leaving. The president slips out the door, but closes it behind him. I try to open it, but it will not move. I lean close to the door to pull on it. A knife stabs through. Any closer and
I wonder if the cook is dead, but decide to wake up.
I admit I've been putting off some emotions for later. Burying them in hopes that they might smolder out on their own, but it would seem they are floating back up to the surface at night, coloring my dreams.
The ships are run by a company named Google My Army. Except in the cruise ship world, it doesn't say Google as clearly. The words are somehow refracted back so as not to remind you of anything. They make everything on the ship. The clothes have Google My Army tags. They raise the cats. Fluffy white cats. Silky black kittens. Striped cats. Splotchy cats.
There is a marathon going on. One of my cousins is participating. It's some sort of one person at a time marathon that includes a run up the long slide usually used to deliver guests to one of many pools. I would assume you're able to choose the outcome of the marathon. Also participating are the company executives. I believe I was in the employ of one who will, upon finishing the race, assume control of the company. He is young, a man to be feared.
I am wanting to escape. To leave, you need a voucher for the boat taxis that will take you back to land. I am in a small deckside restaurant. A light woven structure with a tiki style bar and stools. There are five or six other patrons. The new president approaches, but I am wearing a hat and glasses so as not to be recognized. It seems it wouldn't matter because he is drunk. In his dark jollity, he stuffs his taxi voucher in the band of my hat because he likes the way it looks, like an old press pass. I am holding a book, some sort of illicit book, but he gives me, the lone stranger, another book he likes to share. I slip the folded taxi voucher into my book and hide it under his, always keeping mine closer to my chest. He is feeling social. The restaurant patrons are quiet and on guard. He has taken an interest in me.
Someone must have wished the restaurant away because the hands of god begin to remove its walls. We can now see the ovens and right off the edge of the ship. We can watch the bartender/cook as he scurries about. I believe there was a roast chicken in the oven. Someone must have ordered it.
The president wants to dance. With me. I don't cross him lest he see through my glasses and recognize my face. He puts his arm snugly around my back. He appears to feel romantic. I hold on to my books. He is tired and cannot find his taxi voucher. His father is calling for the almanac data listed on the taxi voucher. He brings me to his room to search for it. The room is small and messy with two beds. The cook from the restaurant is sleeping motionless face down on the larger bed, feet near the pillows. I think we are leaving. The president slips out the door, but closes it behind him. I try to open it, but it will not move. I lean close to the door to pull on it. A knife stabs through. Any closer and
I wonder if the cook is dead, but decide to wake up.
I admit I've been putting off some emotions for later. Burying them in hopes that they might smolder out on their own, but it would seem they are floating back up to the surface at night, coloring my dreams.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Subconscious
I dreamt the other night that I was being hunted.
I don't know that I had done anything wrong, but I was being hunted nonetheless. Me. I mean, I was myself in my dream, which often isn't the case. There was a shady town covered in wood chips, and there was a boy with me. I don't remember seeing his face, but he held my hand as we ran over a network of rafters in big log cabins. When the rafters ran out, we darted into a library and sat around the librarian's desk as if it were the counter at the local cafe. The lights were off in most of the library, except for one bulb over her desk, but you could feel the walls and walls of books. It felt safe.
Then, there is a pause.
We escape the wooden town and are running through the streets of another town, or the same town 100 years later. The streets are paved and there are sidewalks and two story clapboard houses painted white with low black iron fences and black iron railing up the concrete front steps. You couldn't see trees, but there were the shadows of trees on the fronts of the houses.
He took me into an older woman's house. It was more like a room in a house, really. A bed and a few small pieces of furniture, covered with books and papers. Behind one small dresser is a sliding door that looks like the entrance to a closet, but it's really a shower with a bathtub. She tucks me into the bathtub, and I spend most of the dream crouched down with my cheek resting on the porcelain edge.
I can hear voices of the sheriff's department entering the old woman's room. She sits quietly on the bed. They check all around, opening drawers, but don't notice the closet. Or, they see it, but can't imagine it being used behind the dresser. They leave.
And I wake up.
But I am curious that I get to be the protected in this dream. I still have to run, like always, but I am the one being saved, and there is someone to help me. This is new. I have been waiting for these dreams.
I don't know that I had done anything wrong, but I was being hunted nonetheless. Me. I mean, I was myself in my dream, which often isn't the case. There was a shady town covered in wood chips, and there was a boy with me. I don't remember seeing his face, but he held my hand as we ran over a network of rafters in big log cabins. When the rafters ran out, we darted into a library and sat around the librarian's desk as if it were the counter at the local cafe. The lights were off in most of the library, except for one bulb over her desk, but you could feel the walls and walls of books. It felt safe.
Then, there is a pause.
We escape the wooden town and are running through the streets of another town, or the same town 100 years later. The streets are paved and there are sidewalks and two story clapboard houses painted white with low black iron fences and black iron railing up the concrete front steps. You couldn't see trees, but there were the shadows of trees on the fronts of the houses.
He took me into an older woman's house. It was more like a room in a house, really. A bed and a few small pieces of furniture, covered with books and papers. Behind one small dresser is a sliding door that looks like the entrance to a closet, but it's really a shower with a bathtub. She tucks me into the bathtub, and I spend most of the dream crouched down with my cheek resting on the porcelain edge.
I can hear voices of the sheriff's department entering the old woman's room. She sits quietly on the bed. They check all around, opening drawers, but don't notice the closet. Or, they see it, but can't imagine it being used behind the dresser. They leave.
And I wake up.
But I am curious that I get to be the protected in this dream. I still have to run, like always, but I am the one being saved, and there is someone to help me. This is new. I have been waiting for these dreams.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
eleven hours
another dream.
this time, driving in culver city with my dad and sisters. we are younger. we pass a market labeled 'farmers market' with a few carts of fresh produce out front. they have cherries. we go in the store and i'm sure they had sugar cane, like lopez ranch used to. we wander the aisles looking for our own particular things. i have my small bundle. just in front of the counter with the cash register there is a band. they are playing 'take me in a life boat.' my family is ready to go, but i want to stay for the music. i want to sing. i know the harmony.
later, i'm in a house on the side of a hill above a lake. i don't recall seeing the lake, but i know it's there. it's not my house, but i am there for the time being. there are lots of things in it - lots of couches and tables covered in photographs and old things. leah and naeomi come with fig. i get to meet fig. except that fig is a boy this time. they bring coins. british coins maybe. i am packing with my back to the kitchen. it's a monday and john is there. doesn't he have to be at work, i ask. it's only the second day of the week. it is ok. still, i have the uneasy feeling.
---
i slept eleven hours last night, i think. i took the early shuttle home, biked through the park, stopped to eat my scavenged dinner, biked to class, washed my hands, walked almost to the door, but my classmates were streaming out. class is cancelled, they said. i biked home. i was so tired. so, so tired. i parked my bike in the kitchen, sat down at my desk to take off my shoes and couldn't move. stared at my feet for 15 minutes or so, then moved to the bed. let me just sit here for a bit, i thought. under the covers. i woke up at ten to brush my teeth and change out of my coat and passed out again until my alarm went off this morning.
this time, driving in culver city with my dad and sisters. we are younger. we pass a market labeled 'farmers market' with a few carts of fresh produce out front. they have cherries. we go in the store and i'm sure they had sugar cane, like lopez ranch used to. we wander the aisles looking for our own particular things. i have my small bundle. just in front of the counter with the cash register there is a band. they are playing 'take me in a life boat.' my family is ready to go, but i want to stay for the music. i want to sing. i know the harmony.
later, i'm in a house on the side of a hill above a lake. i don't recall seeing the lake, but i know it's there. it's not my house, but i am there for the time being. there are lots of things in it - lots of couches and tables covered in photographs and old things. leah and naeomi come with fig. i get to meet fig. except that fig is a boy this time. they bring coins. british coins maybe. i am packing with my back to the kitchen. it's a monday and john is there. doesn't he have to be at work, i ask. it's only the second day of the week. it is ok. still, i have the uneasy feeling.
---
i slept eleven hours last night, i think. i took the early shuttle home, biked through the park, stopped to eat my scavenged dinner, biked to class, washed my hands, walked almost to the door, but my classmates were streaming out. class is cancelled, they said. i biked home. i was so tired. so, so tired. i parked my bike in the kitchen, sat down at my desk to take off my shoes and couldn't move. stared at my feet for 15 minutes or so, then moved to the bed. let me just sit here for a bit, i thought. under the covers. i woke up at ten to brush my teeth and change out of my coat and passed out again until my alarm went off this morning.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Waking life
Where to start.
I had a dream last night. And I am one to have epic dreams on occasion. These almost always involve some herculean responsibility that falls to me because no one else can or will do it. Or some sort of trial. Or both. Even when the scenery is extraordinary, these are usually exhausting. And violent. And disappointing because I am always alone.
And you could say that these dreams stem from some overbearing sense of duty that my conscious self is absolutely aware of. There are things that one must do because they are the right thing to do.
But lately, things have been different. I feel content in my waking life. I feel good. I feel like -
I feel like Schroedinger's cat that had assumed it was in one state, but has had its box opened and is discovered to be in fact very much alive. Or a photon that had always thought of itself as a particle and finds that when push comes to shove it demonstrates the properties of a wave.
And I wondered when that sort of thing would start to show up in my dreams. I've been waiting.
Last night it happened.
I must have flown the whole world over with my father, who could not fly on his own. But instead of being chased, we were just looking for our way home. We never found it. He'd suggest one way, and I'd be sure our hostel was the other direction and we'd stray farther and farther from our village as I followed his directions, but I had the most wonderful time. We saw tropical islands, the building of a bamboo bridge, clowns walking the streets of modern day western towns with the brightest and most detailed store fronts. Everyone wore the most incredible clothes and hats. We found these incredible kites (made of a small umbrella with a mass of prayer flags tied to the handle - magically, it was the prayer flags that caught the wind) to help us when I was having trouble flying. My wallet was stolen at one point while we were flying low. Or maybe it fell out of my pocket, but it didn't worry me at all. Some of the places we flew over were pretty gritty, but still fantastical. I just knew everything would be alright.
I had a dream last night. And I am one to have epic dreams on occasion. These almost always involve some herculean responsibility that falls to me because no one else can or will do it. Or some sort of trial. Or both. Even when the scenery is extraordinary, these are usually exhausting. And violent. And disappointing because I am always alone.
And you could say that these dreams stem from some overbearing sense of duty that my conscious self is absolutely aware of. There are things that one must do because they are the right thing to do.
But lately, things have been different. I feel content in my waking life. I feel good. I feel like -
I feel like Schroedinger's cat that had assumed it was in one state, but has had its box opened and is discovered to be in fact very much alive. Or a photon that had always thought of itself as a particle and finds that when push comes to shove it demonstrates the properties of a wave.
And I wondered when that sort of thing would start to show up in my dreams. I've been waiting.
Last night it happened.
I must have flown the whole world over with my father, who could not fly on his own. But instead of being chased, we were just looking for our way home. We never found it. He'd suggest one way, and I'd be sure our hostel was the other direction and we'd stray farther and farther from our village as I followed his directions, but I had the most wonderful time. We saw tropical islands, the building of a bamboo bridge, clowns walking the streets of modern day western towns with the brightest and most detailed store fronts. Everyone wore the most incredible clothes and hats. We found these incredible kites (made of a small umbrella with a mass of prayer flags tied to the handle - magically, it was the prayer flags that caught the wind) to help us when I was having trouble flying. My wallet was stolen at one point while we were flying low. Or maybe it fell out of my pocket, but it didn't worry me at all. Some of the places we flew over were pretty gritty, but still fantastical. I just knew everything would be alright.
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