Dreaming

Intruders Do Not Exist

Fri, 7 May 2010 08:45:24 -0400

This was a successful lucid dream and so may be of more interest to people than my average dream journal entry.

I wake suddenly hearing a noise outside. It’s dark and I’m in the bedroom and not only is there noise outside, but I know someone means me harm. I wrap myself in a blanket and pick up my revolver. I listen for the direction of the sound and walk out into the living room.

It is dim in the living room, still night out, and all the furniture is covered with black comforters, sort of like the sheets in furnished houses with no one living in them, you see in the movies. That’s really odd. If I have to break a window to get out, those will be useful. Do I smell smoke?

Am I dreaming? I should check by looking at my arm. A glance down shows that it is far too dark. I move over towards the back door (and the window in it) to get more light, but it is clearly going to be too dark there. I bring on dawn and it gets lighter outside. Now early morning light is shining in. [Strangely being able to make it dawn does not seem unusual or a sign that I’m dreaming.]

I hold up my arm as I get to the door and read “Μορφέας” then the roman numeral “IV”. I look away and look again. Now here are three different roman numerals written on my arm and one of them is sort of translucent and hovering above my arm. What do you know... I’m dreaming.

Now what? I set the pistol down on the kitchen counter. I hope I haven’t been sleepwalking with a firearm. What do I want to do? It is all ephemeral and internal, so none of it will matter. Then again, maybe that’s not wholly true. I return to the bedroom and sit on the bed in lotus posture. I focus on myself and looking into myself for understanding. In addition to myself I see my organs depicted as curves and spheres; as glowing abstractions. What can I understand? My mind explores.

“Meow.” I glance up to see the cats playing in a silvery metal box on the bed. One wants into the box and the other jumps out, waits for her to enter, then bats her in the head from outside. I smile. The sound of rain grows more intense, entering my awareness. When did I close my eyes? I open them and this time I really am awake.

Pick-Up-Sticks

Sun, 21 Mar 2010 19:26:24 -0400

I drift in the water, in the sunlight, sleeping... near wakefulness. Around me white walls rise up, surrounding the pool, with a glass wall on one side. The world has passed away.

I arise and try to prepare, but the light is too bright. I can’t keep my eyes open and stagger about with them closed. My whole family is here, my mother, father, brothers, my grandmother, and grandfather [he’s alive in my dream but passed on in real life]. Caleb is trying to fix a wireless internet router and TK wants the password.

Now we’re at a shop, one among many in an enormous strip mall. They are all full of confiscated possessions repossessed from the dispossessed. My grandparents things have been taken and are here. We wander. My brother Frank finds a box of beer, Guinness, but strange flavors thereof. He asks if I want to go in on them and I agree, but I wonder why I don’t just buy them for him as a gift.

I open drawer after drawer looking. One drawer is full of old toys. Another is full of teddy bears, each taken, now indistinguishable. In one drawer I find a box, carved in abstract detail and made of a lightweight, dark colored wood. Inside are wooden slats, carved with hash marks and the occasional raised bit of hieroglyphics. Below those are sticks, like chopsticks, and mixed in is one die. It is also carved wood, but intricately so that it looks like a monkey skull. One side juts out too much and it would never land with that side down. I ask my father about it as we all head to the front of the store and he tells me it is a game of pick-up-sticks. I must have never learned how to play that game, because it is so strange to me.

My Grandfather is checking out at one counter using a credit card. He isn’t sure how it works and they want to know if it is debit, but this is his first card issued by this store. My grandmother is working the register at the next line over. A woman compliments her on her sweater and the hand painted bunnies on it. She tells her, it was really nice when the store confiscated all of them and put them up for sale.

The Fence

Fri, 19 Mar 2010 07:06:15 -0400

The fence is electrified. It would not keep the hippos contained if it were a regular chain link fence. I don’t remember why I’m in here with them, but the snows are deep and in some places it looks like I can get over the fence. I want to sort of jump forward, so I don’t fall back against it at any point, even if I slip.

I can hear her voice as she’s telling me...

“so it’s all different with kids now. I saw some kids jump the fence and I ran after them. When I caught up they were angry and indignant. ‘what school are you from?’ they asked.

‘I’m from the university,’ I (she) replied.

‘Oh, OK. We might sue.’ the youth countered.”

Foot

Mon, 1 Feb 2010 12:32:19 -0500

I’m just getting into the shower while the argument rages. The shower itself is a long stall of small white tiles, sort of like a locker room.

“That level of intolerance towards people from the middle east is not acceptable,” I yell back to the commander. Why do they have to pull this crap when I’m about to shower? Worse yet, my left foot just fell off and is sitting by itself on the floor while I walk on the stump.

Is it really worth the effort to go back out on my stump and deal with those idiots? My other foot feels a little loose too.

Bendable

Wed, 13 Jan 2010 09:48:36 -0500

The stadium is lit tonight by those ultra-bright overhead lights that look like white balls of lighting clustered together and strapped to a very tall pole. I’m in one of the areas where the view is obscured, back behind a series of bleachers. The crowd has not yet arrived and only a few hundred people are milling about preparing.

I approach the first set of bleachers to get to work. It is grey, powder coated tubing, slightly rusted, and the benches are a fake wood laminate in white on top. There’s one guy up at the top of it, rigging some advertising banners, but he waves me on.

I focus on the benches, looking at the bleachers from one side and push with my thought. A tunnel, about two meters across, begins to form as the benches bend and twist. After a moment I’ve created a circular tunnel made of bleachers, that starts about the third row up and goes all the way through to the other side.

I repeat my performance on two more stands and move into the central area. This is going to be the hard one. I feel like I’m fighting myself, struggling as I make a small tunnel, only a meter across. The others were simple compared to this one. I can see it is not working out. I’m going to have to redo it.

What’s that sound?

Lame

Sun, 10 Jan 2010 11:25:38 -0500

I get off the bus expectantly, but apprehensive. I haven’t been to the factory in a year and a half. Will I still get along with the people? I enter and the whole group is sitting around the break room smoking cigarettes. I say “hi” and am received cordially, but without enthusiasm. Well, we’d better get to watching the Mystery Science Theater 3000 DVD I brought along. Why am I here?

The dream ended at this point with a feeling of confusion and disgust.

One Fine Day at the Hospital

Sun, 20 Dec 2009 11:48:58 -0500

Walls of sterile white, fluorescent lighting galore, ugly tile floors and hallways everywhere; I’m certainly in a hospital, a hallway outside of the reception area for this department. I’m in the midst of an argument with a young woman with blonde hair.

“I’m going to stay” she asserts. “If you people solve it I want to know and with only a handful of people left you can certainly use my help. Will I really be any safer hiding in the city somewhere?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer but does an about heel and stalks off. “there’s only a few of us?” I wonder. What I’m really interested in is the dead woman. Her body is in the morgue, a middle aged woman of african american descent. She is one of twins and her twin is out there somewhere.

I re-enter the reception area then on to an examination room. I’m almost a doctor now, and does it matter anymore. I sit at a small desk and begin to write with great difficulty as I speak the same words to the patients [whoever they are]. “This is condition Y. We’ve seen it before. Let’s run the test and start them on it.” I can’t seem to spell or type properly and it takes me half a dozen tries to get it down.

Dummy

Sun, 6 Dec 2009 11:41:05 -0500

The tunnel is lit by sunlight on each end, but does not really exist where the ends meet the world. Glass pipes line the walls, many meters deep, with openings and junctures and panels. The red, red blood flowing through the pipes colors the whole tunnel crimson by it’s mere proximity.

I’m tucked back behind some pipes, searching when they come. They are two of my own kind, at the end of the tunnel. Do I hide? Run? Why should I; they don’t know anything yet?

They have the books. One was his, and they know it. It is written in the secret language. The numeral on the front cover is a give away.

*Have you seen this* he thinks hard at me.

*No, what is it?*

*Is this yours* he thinks, pulling out my book.

Shit. They have my book with my scent upon it. It was in the library.

*It was my father’s* I reply as he flips it open. The diagrams are there with the messages and keys, hidden in innocuous illustrations of men and women and vehicles. *It’s in the mortal tongue. I can’t read it but I used to look at the pictures* He’s a hunter for certain. Can he tell I’m lying? I go for the big bluff. *Mine! Give!* I drag it from his hands. He’s a little scared of me and backs off. If only he knew. He goes quickly.

I turn and go down the passageway to the other side and my own pipe of blood. It’s right on the main path, prestige from my heredity. The panel is cloudy and filled and there is a blockage. It looks like a toy horse, a dark shape in the blood, blocking the flow. They’d tear me to shreds for it, and it has always been there, stopping the blood, stopping me from really being one of them. It makes me weak, but my mind is strong and I outthink and bluff and trick and no one suspects the old bloodline could be anything but mighty.

I open the panel and dip my claw in the exposed blood, suspended. I scratch the symbols right on the glass of the pipe and turn the heavenly keys in the heaven in my mind. I see the shadows as he flows out behind me. An evil shard of me, quarantined, strong, horrible... obedient. I turn an look at him. He is not a horse at all but a dog. A humanoid dog-thing absurd in appearance. He’s taller than me and half his face is covered by metal, like an old jouster’s helm fused to flesh. Lettering raised in the metal reads “Dummy” in the mortal script.

The effect is comical. How they will smirk at this monstrosity. No one has ever been exposed as long as I. No one would or could wait so long to claim their birthright or in such a strange way. I am still apart from them, but now I have a dummy and they will learn to fear. A phantom floats invisible behind him, the shades of my ancestors all in one. Do they approve or are they angry? I don’t really care either way.

Fastfood Dreaming

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 11:39:29 -0500

I’m sitting outside at a McDonald’s on a sunny, but colorless day in the fall. I’m in the process of cutting a paper placemat into wavy strips about a centimeter across, using a small metal knife. After I cut each one, I eat it.

Some guy with long brown hair is delivering mail across the street and a woman dressed as a waitress from the 50’s is picking up placemats from nearby tables and putting down new ones. Ila is here and she grabs the arm of some guy I’ve never seen before and tells me to look at his shirt. It is green and has been cut all the way around the gut area exposing cut marks on his skin as well.

Immolation

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 13:07:05 -0500

He’s sitting there with both hands in front of him, rubbing them together furiously. She continues into the room looking exasperated. Then, with a snapping sound his hands and forearms burst into tongues of brilliant orange flame.

Aquatic Preserve

Thu, 5 Nov 2009 11:34:52 -0500

I’m walking on the wooden walkways overlooking the murky water. In one juncture, it is too hard traverse so I run down a ramp and get a new piece of wood, that flimsy plywood sheet, to bridge the gap. The lumber I obtain is about 30 meters long and one meter wide. [which does not seem strange at the time] I paint the entire board a dark blue color and it dries instantly. I grab one end of the board and a passerby grabs the other and we walk it up a ramp that is a double switchback.

Eventually, we get the board up by the educational building, but just then tour guides arrive with a long train of children. I’m in the doorway, so I collapse the plank as though it were a rug, piling it up before me.

One of the tour guides remarks, “well we’ve got to make enough to keep the place open” as he passes me with a mob of noisy children. I notice my hands are coated with algae and muck so I go inside to wash them off.

When I come back outside I walk down to the water and hop from exposed stone to stone heading for the location for the new boardwalk. I stop on large boulder and look at a white anemone of some sort just below the water level. It moves and twists in the current, little tentacles reaching. Small children are yelling and running around behind me.

Advice

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 11:30:56 -0400

My old friend Mac sits before me on a wooden rocking chair. He’s dressed as usual in a mixture of plaid, denim, and leather. As if continuing a discussion or lecture he states, “You haven’t really lost a fight unless you end up in a hospital or a jail cell.”

Tres Critters

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 11:17:42 -0400

A large well lit classroom is full of students. The tables are a light colored wood and the walls and floor are white. The arrangement is tiered and semicircular and a monitor displays images on every desk. The students are hard at work, trying to concentrate but the biggest light in the room, at the center of the ceiling, is flickering, distracting everyone.

Finally one student is fed up. Frustrated he stands up and goes to a switch panel on the wall by the door. It’s one of those switches that needs a little key or a paperclip to flip it. He gouges the panel open with his knife, prying it off.

He jumps back as a large tarantula crawls out of the hole and onto the wall. He leans back in to look but a huge, bright blue spidery thing crawls out as well.

“Hey it’s a [unintelligible]” someone exclaims. I wish I understood what they said since I don’t know what that is, but it looks freaky. After it has emerged, out pops a little, fuzzy, yellow duckling.

All three critters follow him to the front of the room where he announces to know one that he’s taking them to the animal lab.

Growl

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 16:26:29 -0400

“Hey, when did that dog get on the bed” I think as I look behind me at the bed. It is small bed under a window with light streaming in. The walls are white and the sheets have a vertical stripe pattern. The dog himself looks like a young german shepherd. “I’ll get him” I tell them.

I grab a plastic laundry basket and try to trap him, but he springs up and playfully chews on my arm while looking at me over the basket. He looks stupidly happy. He’s cute though.

Incomprehension

Tue, 8 Sep 2009 12:06:49 -0400

I get to recall the the tail end of a very confusing lucid dream:

All the way from the longest island to the other one. It makes perfect sense even if it is a dream because it is just like recursion. I know I’m waking up now and I have to write this down when I’m awake for my dream journal and because it is so insightful. There is an elegance to the contention.

Then I woke up and while I could remember the tail end there I simply could not wrap my head around what the abstract idea I was dreaming about was or meant or maybe it meant nothing and just seemed to in the dream. I hate that! Maybe I‘m just less intelligent while awake.

Arachnids

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 11:13:34 -0400

I’m sitting in a hard wooden chair in a musty room, lit indirectly by meager illumination out the window. Ila is lying down upon a brown couch with faded, dark green, draperies behind it. There is movement near the ceiling and looking up I can see a spider... no two huge spiders each mottled black and white and about 8 inches across. They have flat bodies and short, strong looking legs.

I urge Ila to get up and she waves me off. I warn her that the spiders are coming down, but she just wants to sleep. A third one appears and they’re getting close to Ila now. She’s still refusing to listen to my warnings. One of them starts making some odd hissing sounds and biting at her and she finally looks at them and is alarmed.

Finally an even larger spider, maybe a foot across comes scuttling down the wall, biting and snapping. Ila grabs up one of the smaller giant spiders and tucks it under her arm. She jumps up and runs away, cradling it protectively to save it. She has a new pet.

Al Pacino?

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 01:09:00 -0400

I’ve been doing boring and repetitive tasks since I got here at 8 A.M. Who’d have thought working in a police station was so boring? The officer at the desk sends me down to help out on floor three. I climb the stairs and open the door into a cramped office. Two guys are sitting on opposite sides of a desk with their heads laying down. One of them is Al Pacino! Weird. There’s also an odd woman with carrot-red hair and a long brown coat, chain smoking.

Pacino raises his head up and looks at me blearily. “We need lots of donuts. We’re on this diet and need thousands of calories. And we need decaf coffee. Donuts. Donuts. Donuts.”

He goes back to sleep and I head down the stairs and exit into the lobby. The guy at the front is busy with a lot of people so I head out on the street and look around. There’s a glowing “Tim Horton’s/Wendy’s” sign on the building I just exited. I go back inside and follow little signs until I come to a huge cafeteria with a Tim Horton’s built into the wall. Hundreds of people (mostly uniformed police) stand in line that wraps around three walls.

I sigh as I queue up. There is a menu in a glass case, which, in turn, is on a metal stand. I start to peruse the offerings looking for a couple dozen donut variety bag.

That’s when I woke up.

Phantasms

Fri, 19 Jun 2009 15:23:51 -0400

I sit in the entryway of an old, rather rustic home. The floor is battered hardwood and has seen better days. An electric chandelier with fake candles and flame shaped bulbs hangs from the ceiling, covered in dust and unlit.

They dance, these ghosts... or perhaps they march. In a large circle they move steadily. Their hearts are cold and they are only there to the eyes. They are silent and have no presence. The cold hits my eyes in waves and makes them cold to the world, in turn.

My knees creak and hurt as I stand and hobble into the next room, pushing open the antique double doors. A fire is burning in the fireplace and I need to warm up. For some reason sheets of cloth, maybe a square yard each, are pinned to the wall above the fireplace. Each one is faded red, probably linen that was once a rich color. As I watch, they catch fire and are consumed. They fly from the wall in burning tatters and swirl about the room.

The fire singes my hair and burns my eyes. My eyes are frozen and burned and the world looks cold and ruined and hellish. The ghosts follow me into the room. Each one walks over to a series of ornate brass bird cages and takes a bird in their hand. They clutch and squeeze and smother and take the birds with them. The birds were wrong in any case they deserve their fate.

A chair falls over and a bird cage hops a few times then flies up into the air. Some old papers take flight next, then a wooden panel from the wall. Furniture and timbers and bricks and everything swirls and rips into a maelstrom all about me. It bounces off of me and I spin and the world rips itself apart in the eternal night.

Curfew

Fri, 5 Jun 2009 09:43:10 -0400

My exile was foreseen. I knew it was coming and was not going to wait for it. My friends knew. The town council probably knew too. I’m not very patient.

I hop quietly through the garden in the dark of night. The only illumination comes from street lights outside the courtyard. The air is humid. The trees and vines sway in a light wind. I trust to my luck in picking the stones to step on and the ones to avoid.

I reach the back of the house and I can feel the invisible web surrounding it. From within my shirt pocket I remove the folded over sheaf of paper with my note on it. It isn’t much of an explanation, but at least it is a goodbye. I shove my right hand and the paper through the web and lift the window latch. My left hand is clenched into a fist and I open my mouth, breathing heavily. No alarm.

I become aware of the old man as his astonishment overwhelms his craft. He’s been sitting on the porch, tucked away, watching me. I stare into his eyes and he into mine. I’m caught. He’s thinking what I’ve done is impossible. It is not impossible, but certainly remarkable.

Anyone else would have raised the alarm by now, but he is curious and confused. Perhaps he’s a little wiser than everyone else. My co-conspirators tip him over the edge. One of them makes a sound on the other side of the wall and he starts. The outdoor flood lights come on and I can hear the household awaking. I dance through the beams and trees and leap the wall and I can feel many eyes upon me as I make it over. Then, I turn it all off and the house plunges into darkness. We run.

It will take them a while but we’ve drawn too much attention to ourselves after curfew. We run down streets, cut through alleys and across parks to put distance between us and the incident. Our work is not yet through. I trust in my luck.

With my companions in tow I head to a house with an outbuilding and no wall or fence. The grass is cut short but bushes have grown along the edge of the building. The lock on the shed opens at my command and I step inside. I light a flame and we rummage around. There it is, a water purifier. We’ll need one in the swamp, but this is not a normal handheld. It is a big, industrial one with a two foot long metal tank, strapped on wheels. I grab an old, military bedroll as well and we head out.

The alarms start to ring. My luck has run out. We scatter in different directions and I take to the sky, leaping hundreds of feet in a jump, rooftop to rooftop. As I descend towards a wall I see a man, middle aged, with short hair, smoking a pipe.

“I mark you” he says as I alight. He’s rather smug and thinks my capture inevitable. He’ll be ready to testify before the city council. He looks a lot less smug as I bounce the purifier canister off the side of his head.

I leap again and again. The wall around the town has been activated and I can see my companions subdued by bailiffs where they tried to cross. I head north and into the swamp where the wall has not yet gone up. I knew I’d be the only one to make it, but I wish I had the rest of the supplies. I’ll return some day, many years from now, and some will still remember.

Hidden Brew

Wed, 3 Jun 2009 20:44:07 -0400

I only remember a few snatches of dream from last night.

It’s a sport bike with matte black engine parts and a blue gas tank, nestled among tables and chairs. “I should bring my bike to work,” I think.

...

Beneath the vending machine, if you lift up the bottom panel you can see cans of beer. They have a gold finish. They must be the champagne of beers.

The Hunt

Wed, 13 May 2009 20:47:23 -0400

I walk along the highway outside of town until I reach the turn off. It is a smaller, less used county road, but paved. The road is mostly deserted, but I do come across a couple of travelers walking the same way as I, but more slowly. They’re dressed head to toe in plastic rain gear that creaks as they walk. In contrast I’m almost silent in my wool as I pass them.

When I reach the grove of poplar trees I head off the road and into the woods. A mix of cedar and fir trees are mixed in as well, but the poplars dominate. It is growing dark now and it is time to hunt. At my belt in a battered, brown leather sheath is my old hunting knife. The blade is polished steel about six inches long and sharp. The handle is polished yellow bone and black antler in a decorative pattern. It is familiar in my hand as I begin to walk more cautiously through the trees.

When I get near the water, I can hear movement. I slow to a cautious creep and try not to move the branches of the fir tree too much as I slip past it. The white-tailed deer has it’s head up, but is looking the other way, when I leap in two quick lopes and collide with it, my knife flashing. I hit and bruise and the deer thrashes and falls. I drink the blood and it tastes like metal.

I carry the carcass into the swamp, wading through water and mud and soft plant matter. The mosquitos are everywhere and I slap them with my free hand.

Snow Cycling II: The Revenge

Sat, 2 May 2009 14:11:56 -0400

I’m riding along the expressway in the winter and my tires keep slipping. This is nuts. Why am I riding my motorcycle in the winter? Up ahead the overpass is destroyed, collapsed into rubble. I take the offramp and then shoot across to the onramp, bypassing the brokenness.

The next overpass is intact, but things are moving beneath it. I stop before I get there and examine the scene. Creatures hop and slither and writhe beneath the bridge... I move on.

I drive across the last overpass and from a third person perspective I see myself go by and I see beneath. More creatures of all kinds face off against a teddy bear, wearing little teddy bear clothes. He’s screaming like a a banshee.

2x4 Tragedy

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 13:53:55 -0400

I’m sitting in a cafeteria at one of those tables with the attached benches which are always cramped and uncomfortable. The table is white and the room is brightly illuminated and crowded with people. The food is awful. It is indistinct and gritty and bland. [is this because it is a dream or because it is cafeteria food?]

...

The rabbits are all around us. Some are alive and some are dead. The ones still alive are the evil ones, with their little noses sniffing everything. I walk through them to my motorcycle and head home.

For some reason I’m trying to haul an unwieldy object about 8 feet long, like a two by four, but yellow and bit slippery. I have it tucked under my arm, but I have to have my arm up to pull the clutch and it slips. I push it more sideways and grab it with my other arm but now I’m decelerating fast! I switch back but the engine is coughing because of the speed and I need to downshift. I reach for the clutch lever again, but the object slips and hits the ground and I’m falling.

A flash of light and sound and I feel the impact! Discordant ringing in my head.

I’m lying upon a smooth, tile floor in a laboratory. A young Fidel Castro is sitting on a folding chair against one wall, partly behind a bunch of high-tech machinery. He waves.

Kitty Hawk

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 21:42:30 -0400

I can see shelves in front of me, like in a grocery store. They are stocked with random goods, but I don’t pay much attention.

The dream actually started much earlier, but I can’t recall any details about the rest of it.

The lights overhead flicker a bit and I look to one side, then reflexively look at my left forearm. “Μορφέας” is written on my skin in black ink and I realize that this is a dream. With the realization comes a sinking feeling, as though I’m losing the dream and waking, but I concentrate on my surroundings and it stops.

So, I’m dreaming. Now what? Well, last time I was lucid I was rather unconventional. Lets try something more normal. One of the really common tasks for lucid dreaming is flying. I’ll give it a go. I feel myself lift up and off the ground and move forward and up. I smile at the feeling and the motion disturbs my concentration. I fall before I get over the shelf and...

...at this point I awoke suddenly. I declare this experiment promising and at least a little successful.

Convolutions

Sat, 11 Apr 2009 21:28:01 -0400

After a week without remembering any dreams clearly, I have two nights of vivid dreams... but no luck with lucidity.

From above I view the silver trains, speeding along their tracks, many tracks looping clockwise and widdershins on parallel loops. They blaze in the sun. They roar; blasts of engine noise and wind. They pulse now, deep red and each train is a blood vessel branching across the regular curve of the eyeball.

The eye sees a tree and a forest. They exist upside down in the eye, but outside there is nothing. A bluejay flies into the branches of one tree, cocks his head, and preens his feathers.

I walk beneath the tree and through the forest. My bare feet chill sharply as I cross a small, clear stream. The white robe I wear catches upon branches as I push my way through undergrowth. Some branches swish straight through me as though I am a ghost.

The clearing is smoky, making it hard to see and filling my nostrils with the smell of ash. In the middle there is a crater surrounded by ejecta. I look down and can see glass and rock at the bottom.

I suddenly notice all the trees along the edge of the clearing are filled with crimson hands. They look boiled and hang like fruit, thousands of them. They wiggle.

I spread my arms out to their fullest length, my hands palm up and I blow out a breath filled with glances. [This made sense at the time, as though I had stored up all the times people glanced at each other or just objects and made them my psychic ammunition] Pop! Pop! Pop! The hands begin to disappear one by one. I breath in and calmly blow out another breath with the same result. I can feel their anger. The hands, all at once, clench and a cloud of sparks appear around me and in me flaring for a second or two and then fading. They burn holes in my skin. I can feel them burn holes all through me. I blow again and again they clench and I burn.

This is where I woke up.

The Mice are Loose & the Rock is too Heavy

Fri, 10 Apr 2009 10:01:15 -0400

A strange box made of cardboard sits on the polished, wooden table. The table is cluttered with other objects including:
a black stapler
a glass of water
a box of chocolates
a pile of papers
a tin of bandages
two polished stones
a ruler
an empty mug
a pencil
a half dozen books
various papers

The box is open and empty, but the sides are about an inch thick. Satan sits down on the other side of the table and leans in to inspect the box. He has bright red skin, heavy musculature, black goat horns, and a bestial face. I see in his hand a serrated blade, straight and blunt on the end and about a foot long.

Satan saws into the box, parallel with the surface of the table, cutting through the sides and taking off the top. As he does so, I can see the sides are hollow and once he gets a little way in, a small rodent slips out and onto the table. The rodent is small, like a mouse... maybe as big as my thumb. It is light brown and squat, more like a miniature gerbil than a mouse.

The mouse heads for the table edge and I use my hand to stop it from escaping onto the floor. I don’t want rodents loose in my home. Satan keeps cutting away and the critters are swarming out of the box sides. I shift items on the table to try to block them and make a wall along the edge, but there are too many. Why won’t Satan stop letting the mice out?

That’s where I woke up from this one. I was groggy when I went back to sleep and did not even think to try returning to it as a lucid dream.

The sand is in my nose and mouth and I’m choking on the dust, here in the dark. My legs are pinned by a large chunk of sandstone and my right shoulder rests against a wall of the same. I cough.

It’s not completely dark, but dim enough that I have trouble distinguishing the shapes of everything. I twist and try to move my legs to slip them out from under the rock, but I can’t move them enough. I can’t really reach with my hands. The rock is too heavy to move.

I’m trapped here and I have that empty, sinking feeling in my stomach that you get when it all goes wrong and you know it’s just going to get worse and there is nothing, nothing at all, you can do to avoid it. I just have to face up to it. This is going to be truly terrible.

Failure

Fri, 3 Apr 2009 11:24:49 -0400

I am in a dark place, with rough wood beneath my left hand and pressed against my left side. I lean against it and feel the abrasions on my right side throb and ache in the wind.

I woke up from this one quickly and tried to reenter it by visualizing that dream as I fell asleep.

...

I don’t remember what I dreamt this time, waking in fear and with my heart pounding but with no recollection of the dream. I went back to sleep.

I’m standing on the side of the road, on the gravel shoulder and have to start running to get the bus. I manage to catch up, but I only have the one bag. Ila left to go back to school without telling me. I’m going too, back to school.

I point out the window of the bus at lake Michigan. There is a white whale in the water, swimming along the shore. It is about 5 meters long. The simpleton sitting next to me waves at it enthusiastically. He seems good natured.

...

People are all sitting around trying to guess a girl’s name. She gave a hint that it was half of a word when combined with her friend’s name, which I know. I puzzle it out, but don’t feel like speaking up. I’m not really fond of these people. Off to the side someone says they figured it out and there is a huddle of discussion. One person walks off and I ask them if my answer is right, but they don’t answer and just look grumpy.

...

I’m sitting in the cafeteria trying to input data into my phone and computer. I’m working on a group project and trying to get in contact with the two people whose e-mail addresses I have. One is a GMail account so I might try IM’ing them. Ila is next to me, kind of bored. Some people walk by trying to sell marijuana with absurd labels, like “Redwood Buzz”. Ila flags them down and buys a small bag for soup.

Bone for Bone

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 10:08:53 -0400

Death came like a summer storm, rumbling on the horizon, then falling in a sudden curtain across their eyes. I can see the night, illuminated by a bright moon, too large, in the sky. I can feel the people die in the valley, silently dropping out of the world. Their minds fall out of their heads and through the ground.

I lean down over the valley, like an immense dog, and seize the dead in my jaws. The dead are skeletons now, stripped of all flesh, polished smooth, white, glowing. I shake them to bits and the bones rattle on the ground and one, just one, skull drops lightly into my normal, human hand. It is picture perfect, all the teeth in place (but no lower jaw) and no cracks or chips.

I turn away.

I thread my way through outcroppings of stone and around small boulders. The grass is painted with dew and my bare feet are cold and wet and my pant legs quickly become soaked and stick to my calves. It is cold and humid, but the light is good. I can see moisture form a faint cloud with each exhalation of my breath. I walk down three stone steps into a round depression, a meter deep with a bare dirt exposed and ringed with cut stone.

The old bone is here, a broken chunk of a pelvis, perhaps. It is yellowed and cracked and greedy. The skull bites into my hands. My skin is too soft and weak. I strain and pull and twist and break off a few teeth and a chip of the upper jaw. My hands shake and I’ve cut them. Blood flecks my hands, but the bones are clean. I gently set the teeth upon the old bone. I have to shake my hand a bit to let go of them.

It is dark in the room, and there are no windows. I’m below the ground and the walls are stone blocks. The old bone is here, a cracked and yellowed piece of a thighbone. I hit the skull against the wall and crack off a bit from the top. Blood is dripping down my right arm, all the way to elbow and spattering the floor. The bones are untouched. I tuck the new bone into the old, where it is split open like a mouth.

The sand is getting into my cuts and has caked my wet feet. The floor of the cave is made of sand and the walls are smooth, natural stone. I can hear the waves from outside, which, doubtless, carved this passage. The old bone is here, yellow with age. It is shaped like a shallow dish, perhaps the top of a skull. It is scored and ragged with dark brown lines. Writing or just scratches? I pull a small hammer from the sand. The head is polished steel, flat on one side, round on the other. I hit the new skull and although I’ve braced it with my other hand, it sinks into the sand a bit. I crack off a bit of cheekbone and in so doing one drop of blood lands on the side of the hammer’s head. Many droplets spatter the sand, but the bones are clean. I place new bone on old. I smell the sea.

Muppets

Sun, 29 Mar 2009 14:53:43 -0400

The wind gusts, twirling and swirling ribbons of sand across the barren land. Rough and striated sandstone, crudely quarried, is stacked into an impressive pyramid before me but, oh crap...

The pyramid is full of muppets. They’re all the same, blue and furry with great big googly-eyes; hundreds of the bastards. They’re sort of sticking out of the cracks. The monsters are waving and chattering like squirrels, but at the same time they’re almost superimposed, as though I can see through the pyramid and they occupy the same space. Even the implacable globe of the sun above seems irritated, inching away. They chatter on silently. Revolting.

Nine

Sun, 22 Mar 2009 11:08:47 -0400

The world is divided into a three by three grid, forming nine distinct boxes. Each box contains a series of objects. From top left to bottom right they are:

A sphere and two cubes, all opaque and white
A flower carved of clear glass
Two left hands of clear glass with small bubbles and cracks in them
A clear glass sphere
Three clear glass ovoids
Three smoked glass ovoids
A pocket watch made of clear glass
A distorted cube of smoked glass with an ovoid hole in it
[I woke before seeing the last box.]

Lions and Busses and Bikers... Oh My!

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 13:01:25 -0400

This was my first lucid dream in a while and kind of fun besides, although it did involve some injury and pain.

I’m at the corner looking south on Hamilton street. There’s a fair amount of traffic and a rusty, white sedan goes by me. [This is a one way street but in my dream traffic is going both ways and I don’t notice this as unusual.] As I watch a giant lion, easily as big as a truck, lopes out into traffic from the east side of the road. It smashes straight into a blue SUV, basically destroying it. A city bus turning onto the road smashes into the gargantuan feline, shattering the front windshield. People are screaming and yelling and running. The lion playfully bats at some pedestrians and the bus, leaving claw marks on the side of the bus... then continues on his way.

My girlfriend comes up behind me and I point towards the wreckage. “Take a look at that car, “ I comment, “a lion just collided with a bunch of cars.”

“Teto is awfully cute,” she replies. [Teto is the name of our tom cat.]

I walk down the block, with Ila [my girlfriend] following, and survey the damage. I hop up into the bus, through the broken window and open the door. Most of the passengers have cleared out, but I can see a few in the back, just moving silhouettes.

“Mine,” I say and start the bus up. The wind in my face is nice and I head north out into the country a bit. Green leaves flicker and dance in the sun from tall, graceful trees lining both sides of the road. I drive around a corner and see some cars and a motorcycle at a stoplight behind me. I hear discordant honking, then the motorcycle pulls up behind me. He’s shouting and honking his horn. Is he impatient? Does he want by? The road goes from asphalt to grass, then back to asphalt.

The biker pulls alongside, still shouting. His bike has a lot of chrome on it and is a low, cruiser style. He has long, blonde hair, black wraparound sunglasses, a red bandanna, and is wearing a sleeveless denim jacket. It is a stupid thing to wear and he has no helmet, but hey it’s his life. He’s shouting and whooping with excitement. I smile and wave and he turns off to the left.

I drive on for a bit then get tired of driving so I climb out the front window and sit down, with my feet dangling in front of the radiator. I brush some broken glass out of the way and look up at the trees and sunlight. It’s a nice day. Ila seems to have taken over the driving because she’s behind the wheel when I look back over my shoulder. When I look forward again, I notice we’re driving across leaves. When did we leave the road? A branch snaps across the side of the bus. ‘Crap we’re heading into thicker trees. No, turn right for that opening, the one on the left is too small,’ I think. We plow into the trees and a branch smashes two fingers on my left hand. A larger bole hits me low on the chest. That hurts. The bus falls apart, shattering almost. Blood drips down into my left eye and I blink to clear it. Oh well.

Ila and I walk a bit, heading downhill. Soon we’re crossing a road where it snakes back and forth uphill. ‘Where are we’ I wonder.

“By Pinckney,” Ila answers aloud my silent question.

We’re climbing now instead of walking, still heading downhill. Ila steps on the index finger of my right hand while I’m lowering myself down. Ow! I hop down two ledges and into the water below. There is no splash and the river is wide and calm here.

I swim a bit, relaxing. The fingers on both hands still hurt, the right hand more than the left. ‘My right finger’ I ponder. It reminds me of something, vaguely. I look at my left arm.

Note: my left arm is where my lucid dreaming cue “Μορφέας” is normally written. It is normally, accompanied by a roman numeral used as a test. Sadly, due to my laziness I often wash it off and forget to re-write it in a timely manner, potentially hindering its usefulness.

It takes effort to focus my vision on my left arm. I can see vague grey squiggles. I look again. “Μορφέας” is there but faded. It is hard to read, mostly washed away by the water. [Maybe I should get a tattoo.] Am I dreaming? I think maybe I am. I better test to see. What is the number written below the cue? I can’t read it. I think it’s “II” but, I’m uncertain. Well, that’s what I’m going with. I picture the roman numeral for two. I close my eyes. [You’re not supposed to do this when testing, just look away and back.] I can see symbols abstract and without form. I’m not seeing them, visually, as I would with my eyes but thinking them as though seeing directly with my mind. I’m now certain I’m dreaming.

I recognize that I usually wake up upon experiencing such a realization. I’m determined that won’t be the case this time. I force my eyes open with an effort of will and I can see my arm again. I’m elated with my success and contemplate what to do next. I’m lucid dreaming and I can do anything or at least try. I relax and float on my back in the water, seeing it and feeling it as water but at the same time fully aware it s a construct and understanding some underlying form, a mental geometry that I can’t really put into words. ‘What are my chances of altering the constructs?’ I wonder. They are complex.

I start at the center. I sink under the water and breath it in easily. I look up at the light refracting through the surface of the water, moving and dancing with the wavelets. I spread myself out, reaching and I breath in the world. My dream is inside me now, encompassed by me. I don’t see now, but I still know where it all is, like feeling my internal organs. I can feel my pulse, slow and steady providing a beat for the world to dance to. I lift up and blink my eyes open.

This was probably the most calm and collected and gradual waking process I can ever recall. I keep going over it in my head, trying to remember precisely what happened when. I have a sense of accomplishment as this is one of my few lucid dreaming successes to date.

The experiences at the end of the dream highlight how differently I think when dreaming. Awake; a giant lion or exploding bus would have been alarming and unbelievable. Awake; I don’t think the first change to my environment I’d try would be breathing water or swallowing the universe. It provides a lot of food for thought (pun intended).

Grin

Fri, 13 Mar 2009 12:57:06 -0400

Cluttered shelves line the wall behind him and he’s leaning on a counter between us. He has all his wretched buddies crowded into the stockroom, but my mates are here with me as well. We’re bargaining. He’s a short, wide man, with a long mustache that curls up, slightly, at the ends. His wire rimmed spectacles reflect the light, hiding his eyes behind disks of white light.

As part of the deal, he gets a polaroid of me. The joke is on him. My soul isn’t even in Helltown. As the flash of the camera bleaches the room, I smile. I more than smile I grin. He looks startled although none of my mates were facing me and could view the occurrence. He shakes the picture as though fanning flames and I can feel the inferno below.

“One of us” he proclaims, his suspicions confirmed. As he shows me the photo, my friends crowd around me, peering over my shoulder. In the picture my grin is too large. It is grotesque like the Cheshire cat. Inhuman.

“He’s one of us” the man proclaims to the room, more loudly. I’m amused by this. A tall, thin man in a black, undertaker’s suit walks up and offers me his hand. It is covered with quills, like a porcupine, but black. As I shake his hand, the quills sink in painfully, but it doesn’t phase me.

“They’re deadly” remarks the man in black, with malice. His compatriots look on with amusement, some even laughing. I hold out my hand before me and can feel them, then I twist in my head. The quills fall straight through my hand and unto the floor, accompanied by blood, as clear as water. The quills hit the floor with a rattle and the blood with a shatter, glass shards scattering across the floor.

I turn away.

Handy

Thu, 5 Mar 2009 14:25:47 -0500

I sit in a an unseen chair and try to reach out and grasp the light before me. My hand is encased in a heavy, cold metal sphere. I cannot move it any real distance. I am trapped.

I woke up immediately.

Roll Film!

Wed, 4 Mar 2009 21:49:15 -0500

Hmmmm, are both of these guys going to get into the shot? It’s a bit muggy and the lighting is not great. The ground is old fashioned cobblestone and the buildings are mostly brick. The courtyard is large, but this end has some lines across it blocking vertical space.

I see, on the other end of the courtyard, two men suspended in the air from one large ballon each (helium?). From here the figures are fairly small but it works and I think we can get them both in. It’s going to look okay. I can’t make out the director’s directions, but I can hear his accent.

Well, it’s time we headed to the other shot. It is supposed to be along the river. I climb up some old stairs, then down another set to find myself on the river. To my left is a chain link fence and a narrow space between a building and the river. I can see another fence on the other side. In between there is a 50 gallon drum, mostly rusted away, with a fire burning in it. Garbage litters the area, blown papers and brown grass and weeds and dirt.

I hop the fence without really thinking about it and turn to the camera guy behind me. “Come on,” I urge. As I look ahead a man with a tattered wool blanket and hooded coat on jumps out of nowhere and yells. The camera guys turn tail and run and I roll my eyes. I look at the man, his face shadowed by his hood and he shrugs and turns away. I sigh and look across the river at a three story brick building painted a wonderful shade of blue.

Manicure

Mon, 2 Mar 2009 21:45:27 -0500

My wrists and ankles are bound in front of me with brown, leather straps. The rough, wooden stock abrades my skin. The room around me is yellow and dingy with no windows or doors. It is lit by a lamp overhead, but looking up is blinding.

A metal hook, like a fishing hook is slowly working back and forth on top of the smallest fingernail on my left hand. The nail is splitting down the middle and skin pulling up. Blood drips and spurts hitting the floor with little slapping sounds. I can’t breathe properly, gasping in short little breaths. I can’t scream but the pain. The pain is intolerable. I’m going to go mad. I wish I’d go mad.

Stainless steel pincers drag across my toenail, once, twice, thrice before shredding my flesh enough to pull it free. I still can’t scream. It is as though the air is a solid ball in my mouth, choking off my scream.

It’s all happening at once now. The pulling, the ripping, the tearing, the pain pain pain pain pain hot and uneven, jerking me apart. Shredded remains of my extremities twitch before my wide eyes and red lines of blood paint complex webs upon the floor. Tears pour down my face, and I contort and I will never be free.

Snow Cycling

Sat, 28 Feb 2009 12:33:56 -0500

This is a bad idea. Why did I take my motorcycle out when there’s still snow on the roads. I take a corner slowly, waiting to feel the tires slip.

It’s actually snowing now. This only going to get worse. I’m an idiot.

Fearful Running is Classic

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 10:13:21 -0500

The title says it all.

I’m running, being chased. I’m scared and it is dark and I can only vaguely see. I can’t get away. I have to run.

House of Books

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 10:12:44 -0500

This one was a very short dream, but a lucid one.

I’m dreaming. I’m in a house, crowded full of books on shelves and in stacks. Books everywhere in a dark and musty house. I stand in the doorway with my hand upon the brass plate of the door. Can I read these books in a dream?

I woke up just then.

Bad Dog

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 10:11:43 -0500

The room is dark and a dark red curtain runs along one wall. I get the impression of a theater. The curtain area is illuminated by footlights. On the far left side is an anthropomorphized dog. It is brown and standing on its hind legs like a human. Its eyes are glowing yellow.

“Ila’s voice comments to me, “He’s a bad dog.”

The dog, in response, quickly hides a wide, bladed butcher’s knife behind his back. He affects an innocent expression which is comical and like unto an old cartoon.

“He’s kidnapped our dog now,“ Ila comments worriedly.

The bad dog now holds a small, normal looking dog in his arms.

“Bad dog! You have to give the dog back!”

The bad dog steps back, preparing to flee.

“You have to give it back,“ Ila’s voice echoes from the darkness. “I’m you from the future, listen to me.”

She walks forward from the right in front of a window and looks exactly like the bad dog. She runs forward and the lights come on. He’s vanished.

“Drats” she comments.

I Live in a Trailer?

Sat, 21 Feb 2009 18:44:18 -0500

The other kids at school don’t like me. I’m not the same as they are. I’m different. I know it and they know it. The sun is shining today and a wind is blowing. I stand in the shadow of a building and I know he’s coming up behind me. [I don’t attach a name or real identity.] He is my rival, my enemy even.

I turn quickly and hit him first, a hard jab with my right fist into his face. The impact transfers from my two largest knuckles through my hand and arm to my shoulder and I feel my feet transfer the force the the ground. It was a solid hit and he falls onto the dirt. He has blonde hair and still has a baseball cap on.

I walk past him, leaving him there, holding his nose with both hands. I walk up the hill, with strides that cover an unnaturally long distance. in moments I’m hundreds of meters away.

On top of the hill is my home. It is one of those old mobile homes designed to be pulled behind a pickup. It has white, aluminum siding and has seen better days. Two propane tanks pained silver, but showing some rust are in front of the trailer. I open the rickety door and go inside. I sit on the linoleum floor. It is dingy white and blue with a floral pattern and torn in places.

“Leave me, just leave me alone” I request of whatever or whoever might be watching.

It’s dark out now and I’m still in the trailer on the floor. I can hear them coming. They are monsters. Beneath the little fake wood table is a shotgun. It has three barrels for some reason and a regular wooden stock. I break it open and see the end of three shells. They don’t eject. I snap it closed. I can see lights outside now, moving. I lurch to my feet and shoulder the door open and hop down to the ground. They have three eyes and carry spotlights and red tentacle slither and flail in the night. I can see nothing else of them, because of the glare. I am determined.

I am in an arena. The floor is sand. It is octagonal and the walls are plywood with tiered seating behind them. I just won my first match ever. My face hurts and my arms are achy. I climb over the wall and walk past concrete block walls and out into the night.

A car is waiting for me and I open the back door and climb in. It is crowded. Two police officers in uniform and the blonde kid are here. The kid starts to say something, a sneer on his face, but one of the cops backhands him with a loud crack. He grabs his nose again and double over. Both cops are staring at me.

That’s where I woke up this time. It was odd and disjointed compared to my average dream. I jumped from place to place without transitions, but it sort of came full circle. No lucidity. I live in a crappy trailer?

Fear House

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 18:44:03 -0500

The sun is out, but its light is uncertain, flickering as clouds skid past in a race to reach the horizon. The road is well kept, but the lines have faded. I’m navigating the switch backs that wind up the mountain, through the pine trees. Rock outcroppings are frequent.

I’m listening to a woman’s voice tell me the history of the house which is my destination. The road is impassable in winter but people lived there throughout the year, shutting themselves off from society for the cold months. One year an old woman was the only resident, her husband having just died. In the spring, she had simply vanished.

I reach the house itself. It is a monster; a giant victorian era mansion now faded and bitter. The roof tiles are slate and the siding is wood painted a cheery blue, but since faded and peeled. I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don’t want to be here.

I walk for a time through the dark interior, of dusty wood and light filtered through grimy windows. Dread is growing inside me, panic and fear. I swallow convulsively and my head darts around looking for something I can’t see. Something is here.

I follow it out the front of the house and see my car, a large, black sedan... my escape. I throw myself into the driver’s seat, but it won’t start. Why won’t it start? I can’t get away. My heart is hammering. I get out of the car and follow the invisible thing around the mansion where the stiff, brown lawn gives way to limestone outcroppings reaching out into a cliff face. Orange lichen marbles the stone amidst pockmarks eroded by rain.

I cant stop myself I walk haltingly out onto the rocks shaking with fear and feel a push from behind. I plunge over the edge and hit the rocks below a moment later. The pain is numbed and muted...

...as I wake from the dream. I decided at this point to try to re-enter the dream, but in a lucid state. This is a common technique, even if that’s not exactly the dream I’d like to do again. This time it was successful.

The sun is out, but its light is uncertain, flickering as clouds skid past in a race to reach the horizon. This is familiar. This is a dream. The road is well kept, and the lines are distinct and orange. I navigating the switch backs that wind up the mountain, through the pine trees. Rock outcroppings are everywhere.

I’m listening to a woman’s voice tell me the history of the house which is my destination, but it is sort of muted and buzzy. I can’t really here it. [I’ve heard this before.]

I reach the house itself. It is a monster; a giant victorian era mansion now faded and bitter. The roof tiles are slate and the siding is wood painted a cheery blue, but since faded and peeled. I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don’t want to be here.

I walk very briefly in the dark interior, of dusty wood and light filtered through grimy windows. [It is brighter this time.] Dread is growing inside me, panic and fear. It is here again.

I follow it out the front of the house and see my car, a large, black sedan... but I know it won’t start. I’m afraid but I know where I have to go. I follow the invisible thing around the mansion and across the lawn to the cliff face.

I walk out onto the rocks but this time I can see her, the old woman behind me now. I turn and face her and I do not fall. I stand firm.

That’s when I woke up. It was a pretty successful experiment. I succeeded both in gaining lucidity and continuing a dream and controlling what happened within it.

Duel

Thu, 19 Feb 2009 18:43:27 -0500

So here I am. I’m a middle-aged teacher and I’m supposed to be shooting it out with a mobster? How did this happen? I’m wearing a suit and so is he, but mine is brown and his is black. His tie is black too and his shirt is white... sort of a Reservoir Dogs look. He’s about the same age as I am, portly and balding.

He has two identical semi-automatic pistols with a blued steel finish. Unceremoniously he shoves one into my hands. His associates are all standing around joking, except the “Bossman” who looks both serious and bored with an impatient scowl. Behind them is a brick building mostly in shadow, but in direct sun on top.

I’m still holding the gun in both hands looking shocked when the first report from his pistol shatters the muggy silence. I jump and aim the gun in his general direction. Another shot, and I feel something down by my feet; a chip of asphalt from a low miss. I pull the trigger and nothing happens. Somehow I know to pull back the slide and let it drop to chamber a round. I’m terrified and out of my element here.

BOOM! My pistol is firing now, even though I am not aiming properly. A whole series of shots from my gun and his and I can see bullets hitting walls and the ground. Nobody has been hit yet.

I hear one round ping off of metal and then the “Bossman” is yelling at us. We stop and he points behind me. My tan SUV has a bullet hole on the front end, just under the hood. Above the truck a glass window of a townhouse is broken with the jagged remnants standing up like a knife. The duel is over and I lost.

Moving the Machines

Tue, 17 Feb 2009 19:25:31 -0500

I had this dream while on vacation and in unfamiliar surroundings. Also, an unmentioned someone was snoring loudly.

I’m being chased by something and must get away. I run down dim hallways and through a doorway. Heart pounding, I slam the metal door behind me and throw the crossbar with a loud clang. I look around to see if anyone noticed the sound and if I’m going to be in trouble.

The room is well lit with fluorescent lighting mounted on a high, white ceiling. It is divided into two portions, with one being a loft, connected to the lower level with some metal staircases. The upper and lower levels are both crowded with mechanical devices about a meter and a half long, a meter wide and half a meter high. They have a lot of exposed metal parts, many of which are chromed or polished steel. I get the impression of partly disassembled snowmobiles or motorcycles or the like, but with a lot more exposed parts.

I have to get these things running so I can get out of here and the teacher is going to get mad if I don’t hurry. Well the first one is easy, I just need to slide in this thing and bolt on the square cover over the belt. Done. I slid behind it and push it over to the elevator hoist thing and lower it down to the ground floor. That was easy. Two more in quick order. I’m good at this, most people haven’t even fixed one yet. I have to remember to include the number cards with them.

Well, that is all done and we can leave. I climb into the cab of a a big old army deuce and a half and fire it up. The diesel engine rumbles like my old cherry picker truck and I drop it into gear and drive out into the snow. Wow it is snowing out and hard to see in the dark. Snowbanks rise up on either side as high as the top of the truck making the road into a little valley. Whoa! clutch; pump the brakes! The road is blocked by a giant snowboard jutting sideways from one snowbank. That sucker is sixty feet long. Weird.

I woke up at that point.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!

Tue, 17 Feb 2009 12:21:10 -0500

My memory of this one is really fuzzy and while I remember a few bits clearly a lot of it is clearly missing.

“Sit down Ye stinkin’ Dogs!” bellows the pirate in the tricorne hat, leaning forward across the table. The light is low and yellow and the room is mostly in shadow. We’re all gathered around a small, round, wooden table. There’s a pirate with a red kerchief on his head and another who is bald, but has a thick, gold earring.

“Lets get down to the heart ‘O’ this here matter. Together we can sink the naval fleet and then ha’ the seas to ourselves alone fer a spell.”

“OUT! OUT! OUT!” screams the short guy in a formal, black suit. Where did he come from?

[Something happened here, but I don’t recall what.]

We’re all filing out past the short man, while he forlornly looks at the red, knit cap in his hands. He’s becalmed for the duration, since he has the becalming cap.

[Something happened here too, but (again) I don’t recall what.]

I’m walking down the sandy trail accompanied by my fellow pirates. I’m ill. I’m wasting away. I can feel my bone turning brittle and I hate it. My muscles are weaker and weaker.

One of the pirates thinks we should remake that “Pirates of the Caribbean” movie. I think that is a stupid idea, but I’m not going to live very long anyway. Fine.

“I get to be the monkey!”

I woke up then.

I Don’t Need Help to Proofread this Paper

Mon, 16 Feb 2009 17:06:23 -0500

This one was really short, and cut short when I achieved lucidity.

I have to get this paper proofread. I don’t want there to be any mistakes because Ila is counting on me to help her get this one perfect. I’m trying to concentrate, but it’s loud in here.

“I don’t think ‘derogatory’ is a word” comments the man next to me, pointing at the page with one finger. He’s a huge, dark skinned, bald guy that looks a lot like the character from “The Green Mile” movie, but dressed in a green sweatsuit.

“Yes it is!”

“Nope. Don’t think so” he insists.

Exasperated, I throw up my hands.

That’s when I see my forearm and an indistinct, dark blur on it and I realize I’m dreaming. I woke up right away.

Lilliputian Armageddon

Mon, 16 Feb 2009 17:05:45 -0500

This dream was an early morning one and my recall was clearer than many.

The ground is hard and tan and flat and where it meets the lake is uniform and shaped like a sine wave. The sun is a bright white diamond set in a steel grey bowl of a sky. Ila and I duck low as we run for the pool set in the shoreline. The banks around it are about a foot high and it is no more than a foot deep below the water line.

Within the pond are houses, neat little english cottages... and by little I mean about eight inches high. An entire village in miniature rises above the water of the pond.

We jump right on in amidst the town, staying near the edge. The water is cold, but we want to stay low down. We’re hiding. Suddenly, sound stops. I don’t remember having heard anything, but I remember it all cutting to absolute silence. The wind hits next, hot and smelling of ash. I blink away tears and see fiery red to the south. I duck back down for a minute, my heart beating. Looking up at a steep angle I can see black pillars of smoke. They must be miles wide.

“We’ll be okay,” Ila states. I think she’s crazy. What an optimist.

Forking

Mon, 16 Feb 2009 17:05:26 -0500

I feel discomfort. I’m being poked in the shoulder and ribs and thigh. I’m lying down on an uneven surface. Where am I? It’s dim but not too dark to see. A weak sun is shining above, unsteady like a sun seen through many clouds. and ocean in every direction but down. The mountain is beneath me.

It is a mountain made of forks. Dinner forks, roasting forks, pitchforks, tridents... you name it. Except tuning forks, they seem to be absent. The tips are sometimes sharp, but mostly dull and they’re all pointing, more or less, up. It feels like one of my ribs might be broken and the palm of my left hand is slightly impaled. It hurts, dully as if I’m partly asleep. As I pull it up and off the fork I feel more pressure on the other points. [I’m partly aware of this being a dream now.] I look first at might right arm, then my left and I don’t see any greek writing.

I woke just then, probably because of the cue.

Ice

Fri, 13 Feb 2009 15:30:49 -0500

This one was pretty unpleasant, but had more of the odd fracturing of personality, but in a different way than before. My primary perspective is split into that of an observer, watching, and that of one of the players in what I can only describe as some really cheesy fiction.

I stand dripping in about six inches of cold water and shake like a dog to get a little drier. The night air is cold and the moonlight dances like a spark on the choppy surface of the lake. I can smell the decay in the air, like after a heavy rain. She’s here somewhere, but where?

I look down at victim me shaking off the water and at the witch almost straight ahead of him in the water, crouched down behind some white, pitted rocks at the edge of the crick. Reeds rise up all along the waterline and a confusion of black trees forms the backdrop.

He’s splashing toward her and doesn’t know what’s about to happen, but he has no chance. He has the ability but not the will.

I feel the ice on my left cheek first, burning then numbing and the shock hits me like a giant’s slap. I drop straight down to one knee. She’s there now, like magic, a dark silhouette of the human form vomiting malice. I’m strong and I endure. I push off the cold in a surge within. The ice slices my arm and my side like a saw blade this time. The wound feels deep and I don’t want to look. I hurl my violent intention like invisible daggers.

Chips and cracks appear making visible the wall of purest ice, like crystal between them. Her fingers flicker forward and it frosts over white and opaque, then topples toward the victim me.

I don’t even have time to consider. The pain and force is unstoppable hitting me hard on the forearms then head then body and ramming me beneath the water. I can’t hear my screams beneath the oppressive mass and surrounded by the water. It is all dark and cold and stinging and gashing.

He’s not there anymore. How did he escape? She can smell him or feel him because she turns and lopes toward the wood even before I see victim me, deep in the trees, twisted like fired cables around.

I hold onto the tree trunks black, arms outstretched to either side like a crucifixion. My fingers dig into the hard and wet bark. My blood drips and drips, slow and cold. My nose is full of blood and I can barely breath. I can’t feel that much of my body but my soul screams in despair. I’m shaking uncontrollably now. I am hunted. I cannot run. I have but a moment and she will be here.

This is where I woke up. My left arm was sort of visible, but not clearly, so it was probably not encroaching lucidity that ended the dream. It was a rather unpleasant one, but had a sort of comic-book, pulp novel feel of artificiality to the whole thing. Should I stop watching such bad TV?

Short Stories

Thu, 12 Feb 2009 15:30:05 -0500

These three are all dreams I had one morning in quick sequence.

#1

I’m sitting at a smooth table the color of a bluejay in winter. My friends sit around the table looking on. We’re playing cards with a traditional card deck, but no one is dealing. Cards are sliding in front of each person face up and the combinations are significant. Queen of Clubs is angry and thinner next to a red jack that is no person at all but a force of nature, a disaster lurking in the blood and the four sitting cockeyed is the whole potential. It’s the future plain to see.[Well, it seemed plain at the time.]

And the next set is better. That spade is blue, not black. Golden twisting ribbons behind the face card’s face. A scowling visage, but good natured like a father who blusters after losing a chess game to his son... so full of hidden pride. The hard part is over and now is time to coast for a while on hard work past and live the good things coming. I’m envious of such a future and feel bitterness.

The room spins a bit as if I am intoxicated and the lights go out.

I wake in the dark of my bed and fumble for my pen and journal out of habit. Enough light is coming through the window for me to record my dream but something is odd about the light. I jot a few quick notes and frown at it. What’s with my arm? Pressure surges in my head.

I wake for real this time. Double waking is a real oddity and I had to record my dream again. I wonder if it has been altered in virtual repetition? I don’t know for sure if I wrote the dream or the version of the dream I wrote in my dream.

#2

The kitchen is a bit dated, dirty and has not been used regularly in a decade. I’ve got to get this stove working. Someone pulled it partially apart when it broke but now I have the parts, I hope. The venting is all wrong and the blackened finish on that piece of pipe is not right. It ends in a cover like should be on the outside of the house. The mounting does not fit along the back either. My knuckles are bleeding scraped on jagged metal.

Is this a heating stove or a cooking stove? It hooks up to electricity but what is that below? My arm is stuck. My ankle can’t move. It’s really really hot where my arm is pressed between those metal plates. The hurt comes and I smell the burning but this is a dream. I know it is and have known all along on one level of consciousness but now that part of me has stepped in and joined the unaware and dreaming part. I sort of snort or maybe yawn and push...

I awoke this time, my heart still pounding, but having been clearly lucid without my cue. The feeling of separated consciousness used to be a common phenomenon at the end of unpleasant dreams in the past, before starting the lucid dreaming experiment. The action at the end of my dream was confident, but cannot really be described properly.

#3

Blue cloth covers the walls and the lighting is yellow and bright and steady. The floor is hardwood... a gymnasium floor. There they sit all in a row; the machines. Squat and white in lines on the table. I do not trust the voting machines.

That one was very short.

Dream Bars

Wed, 11 Feb 2009 15:29:13 -0500

I’m in the classic dive bar, spacious and dark and mostly empty. The bar in front of me is burnt umber colored and pitted wood covered in a million layers of hard lacquer. Smoke drifts about the room and a few groups of tipplers are gathered at various points along the bar. To my left sit several persons with indistinct features and a bottle of good scotch. To my right sit several old men with a bottle of rotgut bourbon. Their eyes twinkle, but their smiles are strained and shabby. In front of me is a bottle of brown liquid with a label that I recognize and can read, but the letters are not any character set I have seen. I have an olde fashioned, cut glass shot glass.

At this point I wake up, but I try to retain the dream in my mind as I return to sleep, with some measure of success.

I’m sitting at the bar in an sort of western saloon. The light is better than the last bar and the furnishings are all a medium to light stained wood. The place is packed with people and the chatter of voices and clinking of glass fills the air. Light sparkles through large, glass windows behind me and there is a light source behind the bar that gives me the impression of a large mirror reflecting the windows, but I don’t see it clearly or any reflections. [I don’t recall having ever seen a reflection in my dreams, although other people have reported them, especially mirrors, as common.]

On my right sits my good friend Mac. We have been chatting and sipping a beer. I feel relaxed. Down the bar I see a man that reminds me of some cheesy character from a 90’s sitcom. Sitting a bit behind me, next to the door are three nerds gathered about a small, round table. They are absurd stereotypes right down to the pocket protectors.

The bar beneath my hands is old, old wood but feels sort of rubbery. Looking over along the baseboards and behind a crowd I see my sunglasses, fallen to the floor. They are small with round, blue tinted glass lenses. I’m concerned that I have lost them again and they need to be retrieved. As I consider how to get them I notice that the faces of the men and women on one side of the establishment are not faces at all but emanate sin: sloth and greed and lust pours from them. I frown and take a sip before my beer can be contaminated.

Here is where I woke for the second time. I managed to hold onto the bar theme to some degree, but only in a general way, rather than returning to the specific dream. At the end the vibe was getting quite unpleasant.