Tag Archives: dream

You Deserve Better Than Your Name

08 Wednesday Nov 2017

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I opened my eyes and looked down at my body and the covers on my bed. I felt alive and aware and comfortable, if not happy, but at least content, you know, that moment when you’re not here or there, in dreamland, but everything is happening in my bed.  The room was bright. Above me, by my knees, was hovering a few black specks that I named fruit flies. There were only a few hovering high above my knees in a well-lit room. But more came. And then more. And more. I was surprised at how many of the dark specks were hovering over me, and I wondered if it was because I hadn’t taken my garbage out promptly.

Then, one by one, some of the fruit fly specks grew into larger specks, then larger, and they revealed themselves to me as little bats. The bats were hovering over my knees as I was covered in my bed.  I wasn’t afraid, they gave me no reason to fear or worry, but I was perplexed at why they were in my room and what to do next.

I got up out of bed and now I am surrounded by tiny bats. Their bodies are the size of my thumb. They bombard me not with wings outstretched, but bodies, little brown furry bodies clinging to me. Once, when I was a teenager, I came upon bats in an attic, and their winged movements, climbing up the wall horrified me.  In this dream, the bats do not horrify me.  I feel like they are present and needful and I’m not sure what to do. I got up and opened my bedroom window, then lifted the screen window hoping to entice them a way for them to leave, leave, leave, go!  I am covered in little bats, in my hair and my clothes, their tiny fingers clinging. I work hard to gently pick them out of my hair, to pick them off my sleeves, I’m working gently because I do not want to hurt them, but I feel they just cannot stay stuck to me, and the dream is specific as I gently pick each claw from my hair and my shirt one by one and shoo them out into the street.   Each one I pull off me I toss outside beyond my window and they fly away, unharmed.

There is a larger story about these bats that came to roost in my hair. Maybe it began that day we trespassed on that mansion in the back like all teenagers do.  All I know is, I spent a long time grossing out over bats, but now, today, I embrace them and appreciate them in ways I never could before. The next time someone suggests I’m batshit crazy I think I’ll wear that like a badge instead of shame.

Pop Pop, I Dream You and Miss You

08 Wednesday Nov 2017

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“Nah, nah, nah, what the hell are you doing?” he hollered at me. A little kid. I wasn’t doing something the right way.  Pop Pop ran up beside me and told me for the third time how to work the foot controls and the hand levers to keep the race car he made on the lawn and not run into the flower beds. It was called the MudSlugger.  He hollered any time I did something “dumb” but it wasn’t a painful admonishment. It was just how he talked.  My mother’s father, Pop Pop, meant a lot to me as a kid.  I loved wandering into his garage and smelling the smells of old gasoline, oil, and everything in between, his shelves neat, his jars and drawers neatly labeled, my aunt Ruthie’s artwork hanging here and there.  To this day I wonder where their Plymouth Fury, the sea-green one with the push-button transmission has gone. I wonder where the pigeon he kept in a house outside his garage has gone, the one he healed and helped survive its injury. So many tiger-lily, mimosa, lightning bug, captain crunch, super salty roast, leave the dogs alone memories are with me now and I wonder where they’ve gone.  I miss his white Ford pickup, the one with green highlights, clamshell hood, the one he covered in dark orange carpet and hand made a tool shed in back, where we sat on the way to the grocery store.

Last night Pop Pop came to me.  The dream was me in the back of a something, probably a truck, leaning over a tailgate.  The truck was connected to that trailer, the one made of old grey wood that will flip up when the weight is unequally distributed.  The truck was pulling the little trailer, and my son and Pop Pop was sitting on the trailer.  My son was happy.  Pop Pop was as I remember him. He was kneeling, wearing a dark blue down vest over a plaid shirt, his wire-framed glasses on his wrinkled smiling face, and both he and my son were happy.  I took pictures of them with my camera phone from the back of the pickup.  I leaned over and showed them the picture.   My son saw that my phone had a broken lens, and he somehow, I don’t know how, made the cracks disappear and the phone’s pictures felt magical.  My son and Pop Pop were sitting together on a trailer being hauled by Mike.  Pop Pop was with me, and I know few will understand what that feels like and that’s okay, but he was.  I miss him. I want to remember him, his fastidiousness, his devotion to creativity but his desire to keep it all in its place. I miss those mimosa blossoms, visiting my aunts, carrots that were terribly salty and yet I loved them.

Pop Pop came to me last night, and I cry because I feel so blessed to see him again.  I cry because I hope his creativity and fastidiousness won’t be lost on future generations.  We should all be so lucky to have a Pop Pop who made things, who learned, who worked part time right up until the end. He taught me so much.  Meanwhile, I’m looking for a giant clock they kept in their bedroom that you could hear anywhere in the house, ticking, a pink double-alarm ticking, that comforted me in ways I am still looking for.

Preamble to Orpheus

08 Wednesday Nov 2017

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Waking up from a beautiful dream is a blessing. First because you’re waking up and second you have something beautiful to remember, to hold.  I believe all our dreams are precious and important, no matter how disturbing, distressing, uncomfortable, strange, or nefarious they might seem.  Gifts wrapped in satin or barbed wire, they are gifts nonetheless. We think about them on the way to the can as we relieve ourselves, in the shower reveling in hot water, wondering. We examine them and call up their minute details on the drive to work, in between emails, distracted, bemused, unsettled, wondering.

No one has the magic answer that decodes our dreams. They are studied and we’ve learned so much about them, and I appreciate all the effort and time that so many have put into understanding our sleeping selves. In the end, our dreams are personal. We have many docents who guide us to keep our hand on the prickly rope on our journey down into the dark as we seek the secret minerals that glow in red and green, blue and what is that at night.  Everyone will experiences their own journey, and I believe it’s important that no should define a dream, that midnight walk when the body is paralyzed. Guide, but do not define.  Suggest, offer a hand, but only the dreamer knows what it means.

I know when I dream I am healthy. My mind is unlocked while my body heals from the day.  When my dreams are absent I do worry.  My sleeping habits are not great, so it’s no wonder my dreams aren’t faithful. That’s okay.  The misses remind me to do better in every way.  Now for two dreams that will mean little to anyone except for me, one little and one a little bit bigger in two different posts.

Tiger Wrangling

18 Wednesday Oct 2017

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A steep grassy hillside in daylight, a long narrow sandy area below.  I was instructed by I don’t know who to get the animals into their pens now.

I doubted that I could accomplish the task in this dream, but what I notice as I sit in waking daylight is that I wasn’t afraid or overcome with doubt. It was more like, I can probably do this, I’m not sure how, but here goes.

It’s not easy wrangling white tigers when they bury themselves in the sand, only a small part of their face showing and that’s how I found him.  It’s a dream, so who knows how they they got themselves in the sand but one sprang out at me from the sand, he was only me-sized, strong and hurtful, he toothed and clawed me, long deep wounds in my arms, but I got my hand in his collar and started dragging him towards the plane.  He turned over on his back, front and back legs up, struggling and fighting with me like a stubborn dog that did not want to go in the house but I never lost grip on his wide, old, soft leather collar.  We fought and I dragged and eventually he got to his feet and I was able to get him up and inside the DC-10. Once inside, it was well-lit and there were pens ready for the critters, small affairs made of old plywood with dubious latches.

I went back out and found another white tiger hiding in the tall grass. This one was stubborn but not fightful, dull like his blue eyes, it allowed me to drag it up into the DC-10 and shove it into a lower waiting pen.

I went back out and found a bearcat, or a binturong since this dream wants to be specific. Long and black and heavy and feisty, like carrying a 40-pound ferret that wasn’t mean or terrible, just sleek and busy, nicking me with his claws as he climbed all over me.  I tucked binturong into his pen next to the first white tiger and closed another dubious latch.

The pilot came down dressed in casual blue, long sleeves and slacks, headphones hanging around his neck and he tiredly told me I had to get in my seat we’re leaving now.  We were leaving before all the pens were filled, but I knew this was it. We were headed elsewhere, a sanctuary of some sort.

I don’t know the reason I had to uproot wild and active creatures, put them in pens, and take them somewhere else. I know I wasn’t certain I could do it, and I was bloodied in the process. I wonder if those creatures are wild and free and satisfied. Few of my dreams give me the final word.

Feeling Cold In A Warm Sun

02 Monday Oct 2017

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The underground building and garage is labyrinthine, sharing arteries, paths, walkways like conjoined twins. Some shortcut paths we (the workers) weren’t allowed to take, those were designated for certain people only (perhaps the kind that wear heels instead black, tarry workboots.)  The building is brand new, the cement floors painted clean gray and bright yellow. It is loud and echoey in here. I’m the only woman in here, and the men aren’t nice to work with.  At my right shoulder is a man I used to work with.  He stuffed five pages of faxed copies of his records in my hand, and he’s appointed me the task to help him with pointing, grunting, and broken English.  He is Asian, his name hard to pronounce. (Mister H?)  No one wants to help him.  He follows me through the long halls that seem to lead nowhere, through bright tunnels where workers are laughing, smoking, fooling around, and definitely not helping.  He points to a name and phone number and wants me to call this man (the top man, the boss) and get Mister H help.  Most of the dream is me on a cellphone making a series of phone calls until I can get as high as “they” will let me to demand medical care for Mister H who was hurt on the job. He is out of work, no one will help him, it says he’s eligible right here on the forms, YOU signed it, what’s the problem, then?

It’s past sunrise and I awakened to a messy room.  I stand up, wobbly, because my right hip grumbles at me when my body is still for too long. I drink a cup of cold water from a Starbucks Seattle mug a friend gave me. I wonder how her night went, knowing, but still hopeful.  And then I read the news that comes from Las Vegas.

I can’t believe my eyes, and my heart cycles through broken, angry, sad, who cares, looking for fault, finding a reason, then starts all over again.  I light a sage-scented candle, something strong and clean to try and purge the sickness from my two little rooms. I’m too warm but my bare feet are cold, and it’s an October morning for sure. Another day I don’t understand and I know I’m not asking the right questions or speaking the right words. For now.  Someone posted a terrible verse from Isaiah on Twitter to the effect that god don’t care for your thoughts and prayers because your hands have blood on them.  Well okay, then.  While I wash the blood and shit and dirt from my hands, I will look for ways to be a vessel of peace, an instrument of giving, a la St. Francis.

If I close my heart, I’ve already failed.

A Tired Morning

06 Thursday Jul 2017

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Some nights, it feels like the dream will never end, and when I wake I am already tired.  Then I read emails and the 800-pound tired sits with me on the bed leaving me in stunned silence with a decision to make: flop back down to try and seek another hour’s rest in hot, strong sunlight or get up and get moving. Guess I chose to get up and work through the morning.

I’d known her for a long time. She was my friend, someone I used to work with. She was so very tall and big… a big girl (this is no lady) this girl with long, fair brown hair. (She reminds me of someone I knew in another life.)  She was in tank top and shorts, and she was leaving. And she left. All I remember right now is feeling heart-hurt for the loss, and that feeling seemed to go on for a long time.

The next part of the dream (or maybe a different one entirely, who knows it carried on so long) found me in a parking lot outside a very large industrial building. Looks like it’d been there awhile, the usual dents and creases, rust, and spots of paint paler where they scoured off some graffiti. I had one job to do. (Can you hear the meme? I sure could.)  I had one job, and it seemed like nothing and no one wanted to cooperate and help me get this 55-gallon blue poly drum on a pallet, into a truck, and shipped to its destination. One drum. What was in it? Where was it going? I have no idea, but the job was all-consuming to me.  I went inside the building to get a bill of lading to get this process going. The cavernous room was poorly lit. Girders and beams covered in dark masses of cobwebbed dust in the high ceiling. It was quiet inside.  Several really wide, long wooden tables were centered in the room covered in papers. Most of the papers had already been written on. Everything was a disorganized mess. All I needed was one blank bill of lading, and I couldn’t find one anywhere on or below the tables. Another co-worker, I’ll call her “Cindy” was there also flipping through papers, and now I can see a bunch of guys in tank tops, white towels hanging around their necks because they were hot, just standing around not doing a thing.

My cellphone (an old flip phone) goes off. It’s my dad. He wants to know if I shipped out those books yet. Apparently he told his co-workers he would arrange to have some books brought in so they could have something to read, like a small exchange. The books are piled high on a pallet in my building for some reason. I was supposed to know who’s book belonged to who, and ship them. The books are old, worn, faded jackets scuffed and torn on the edges, titles no one would recognize, books that you walk past at flea markets. Instead of me shipping the barrel in the back of my mind, now I’m opening book covers, looking for names and addresses and there’s nothing there. Another impossible task. I’m angry and verbally abusing my father (not yelling) but saying awful things to him about this problem he handed me. It’s his fault that I can’t get this task done, why is this my problem, on and on and on. And he just stayed on the line and took it.

I awoke feeling tired and terrible for yelling at my dad. I know it’s just a dream, one that means so very many things. Waking up feeling tired and terrible isn’t the worst thing I suppose. I would read far worse things soon enough, and deal with the day and this sadness hour by hour. Another hot, humid day where the sky is sweating on us. I’d like to go back and dream up some rain.

May 4 Dream

04 Thursday May 2017

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She was walking alone, but perhaps not a long way. She was dressed in a sari, her long hair lightly covered, her sari the color of poppies.  There is nothing in the dream but her, walking.  She stops walking and she knows at last it is time.  She lies down and leans up against something, but I do not know what, it’s not shown in the dream. I only see this woman in poppy red, reclining, her knees are up and she is ready to give birth now.  The rest happens so quickly and silently.  They all spill out of her body, five small babies and so much blood pours out of her onto the ground like fish falling from the fisherman’s net onto the deck,  but they are all dead.

The dream changes dramatically. This is black ink on white paper, she is artistically rendered into a soft, curving line drawing. The woman opens her sari, her abdomen is one wide open womb, and she gathers all five of the babies into her arms and pulls them back into her body. She closes her legs, straightens her sari. She reclines on the ground on her right side, closes her eyes, and she smiles the most peaceful sleeping smile.

She smiles. It was the only expression she ever showed throughout the entire dream.

This was a tough one for me to write, and I’m not sure why.

It’s Been A Daddy Kind Of Day

24 Monday Apr 2017

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I dreamed of my father.  He was with me just now, as I remember him when I was a tweenager, back when I had a pageboy haircut and wore caramel-coloured velour shirts.

He was standing on the grass in the courtyard, much like this one only the buildings were taller and there were more trees.  I knew almost everyone here.

He was standing still as I told him why I was sad.  He listened to me and it felt kind.

When I awoke, my heart was pounding hard and I suddenly knew the reason for my sadness.  (I brought it on myself.) He didn’t have to say a word.

Thanks, Dad.

(then, of course, my brother calls me just now to ask me a question about him.)

Women’s Lives

24 Monday Apr 2017

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The dream begins.
I was walking towards a large campus of low buildings, crowded with many people inside and out.  These are schools, elementary, junior, and senior buildings all in one place. The weather is neutral. Some folks are sitting on a low hill in the grass. All of the bathrooms were empty. No one wanted to use them because every room, every stall was polluted and broken.  I walked among throngs of people outside; no idea what the gathering was for.  A young woman approached me, her mother sat on the grass watching impassively. The young woman was shorter than me, her face round and young, her blonde hair long, very long, down to her coccyx, natural and wavy, recently unkempt.  She said she needed help, she needed to get back home. She was calmly distraught, if that can be a thing.  A great deal of the dream was me asking for her name, what is wrong, where are you from, but she wouldn’t answer. We kept walking through the crowds.  Finally, she brought out a picture from her pocket, a printed piece of paper and showed me an infant in a high chair, head and face bloody, a knife through the top of his head. She said she needed to get back to him and see if he’s okay.  Instead of recoiling and hating her, I could only feel a low, deep sense of need. She was in trouble and needed help. I put my hand on the small of her back and guided her towards one of the buildings to see if we could find “somebody” which I assume to mean “authority” to help us.  On the way I asked where she’s from, no answer. Every teacher I asked for help said, “She’s not in this school, sorry.”  In between jostling through crowds in the halls, looking for someone to ask for help, she confessed that she hit him before, the law knows about her, and she can’t ask anyone for help because of all the trouble she’ll be in. She just needed to get home, please help me. No tears.   I stayed with her.  Finally I came to a tall person in a white-shirted uniform. Seems he knew the situation with her from what through rumor and threadbare facts.  And then nothing.  The dream ends without me knowing what happens to the girl.

What strikes me most about this dream is that I can see her clearly, her mother stayed behind while I led her away,  that I feel empathy towards someone who apparently murdered a child, and that she showed me a picture she (or someone) took, and printed on a piece of paper.  I woke in the middle of the night recalling this dream, thinking, “are you kidding me? really? did this really just happen?” I spent some time with the dream before returning to sleep, soaking in details and I knew (somehow) I’d remember it in the morning.  What does it mean for me now?

She Went Willingly

12 Wednesday Apr 2017

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We are walking in groups inside a large, empty, concrete building.  Looks like it might have been a warehouse, but there is nothing inside it now except people walking. I know why we are here. I am going there willingly. Are they? We are all white, various ages, and speaking English, shuffling forward.

There is a man over there at the head of the line, sounds like he’s giving directions. He’s an actor, that jovial, familiar man whose name I don’t want to connect to this dream. When I get to the front of the line I am surrounded by women now. We seem to have separated. At the front are three women who are smiling and chatting, as one might do in a salon.  They are throwing powder on us, tell us to cover our eyes, turn around, and they take special care to put extra powder on the women with very long hair.  They direct us that way, and I think it’s towards the right.  I know why we are here. I am going there willingly. Are they?

We stand a long time and wait. The only sound is murmurings, low voices speaking conversations I cannot hear. We are covered in white powder, our eyes moist and small in our faces.  “Lie down now.”  And we do.

I am inside the oven now, only it has two openings, one they slide me in, and the other side is open where I can see daylight. It’s close in here, but not too close. The “walls” and “ceiling” look like sooty stucco that would crumble at the slightest touch. This is it. The poison gas will be administered here, and it’s coming now. It looks and smells like nothing. I am getting tired, very tired, maybe a little dizzy, and I want to sleep.  Suddenly I realize that if I die in this dream, they will find me dead on my bed, and force myself to awaken.

I awoke like nothing ever happened. Calm, heart steady, not sweaty, not screaming. It was four in the morning. I stayed awake for a while wondering what it meant and hoping it wouldn’t come back after I went back to sleep. I wasn’t ready to get out of bed yet.

Some might say I need to lay off the news for a while. I’m just hoping to write this out of my head and try to forget it.