Category Archives: Dreams

Dreaming of things

Dreams about loss, not of people but of things. And it seems many of those dreams manifested in the last hour before I woke. I’ve been reading a lot about lucid dreaming,  where you can move in between sequences without pause; it certainly felt like it. I wouldn’t be able to explain the surreality and blended flow of past vignettes otherwise.

It was like watching a scene from a Woody Allen movie and then interacting with all of its characters. I was having lunch at a restaurant, my dining companion nondescript when someone walked by the plate glass window holding up a book that looked familiar. Something I owned, something I knew. That flash of recognition compelled me to dash out of the restaurant in the direction from which the stranger had come, and into the not so distance past from which I had come. A series of life-like experiences and interactions with objects from my past followed: a box of items left under my desk at a former employer’s office; a ‘crooked’ pantry filled with discarded butter and opened bottles of water in from my childhood home; and the persistent presence of a brown corduroy jacket with cream colored pinstripe interior that I’m not sure I ever owned.

The interactions were accompanied by a wave of emotions. First, anger and annoyance for the company having not tried to get in touch with me before donating my ‘goods’ to the strangers and streets of New York City. Then frustration and confusion that the new owners of my childhood home would let food spoil, in a Fantasian asymmetrical room. In each sequence, there was an undefinable and unrecognizable personality: the administrative assistant that was going to help me resolve the box issue; the young woman with curly brown hair sitting on a couch with a mug of tea; an older woman wearing the jacket, the one that used to be mine.


For the last few years, as February has shifted into March so have things and people shifted in and out of my life. A career, a house, a persona, and yes even that brown corduroy jacket. And for every exit, there has also been a beginning: a dream set in motion, a home created, and even a new addition or two to the unfinished fashion closet.


What is it about being sick (in this case with a sinus infection/cold/cough) that makes you dream so vividly, almost frighteningly so.

In a span of 6 hours I went from whimsical and positively light reverie to trolling the depths of despair and darkness.

The beauty of a wheat field

late night

I am in a deep sleep and the lulled scent of fresh flowers, of life, wakes me. I am in a building cut in half, like a diorama where anyone passing on the outside can see in even though the surrounding streets are empty. There is a cool breeze the type that is awaken by a mid-summer day and curls around your skin like silk beckoning you to begin the day. There…here it is twilight in this room where I’ve been sleeping. No larger than a broom closet, and a male voice asks why I am sleeping in such small quarters, but I do not feel the size of the room, only peace. Untangling tan legs from crumpled white sheets I walk towards the window. A large plate glass that reminds me of the loft scene in Ghost; nearby I hear the mewing of a cat and can vaguely see the shadow of one on the fire escape. I reach around the window, the wall to pick the kitten up, his fur is soft and blue gray and he is comforted by my touch. Just beyond the window there is an empty lot and I can see 2 figures: a man and his daughter. The child is wearing a pink dress, her dark hair cut in a pageboy; she laughs and waves to me, I smile and wave back.  I blink, the scenery changes. Now there is a meadow with a small lake bordered by dark gray cobblestones slick with moisture, the grass is yellow green and surrounded by wheat flax rising on the hills. It reminds me of the rolling leas and mountains on the drive to Lake Tahoe with Mon Frite.  To the left there is a playground shaded by a large oak tree that appears to be growing adjacent to my building, almost as if the building and tree are one. There is a barn, actually no a monkey bar set with a yellow thatched roof, the oak branches sway side to side and I feel content, blissful even. And when I wake it is 2AM.

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Wooden Cabin Ominous Dark Storm Clouds ©

early morning

We are in a courtroom. I am dressed in a simple black dress, fingering a strand of pearls at my neck. My mother is there, except she is older, her hair is white, as if she were here with me in 2011. She is also dressed in black. In my dream, there is a young boy maybe 6 or 7 and he is drawing in a sketchpad. We appear to be waiting. A non-descript man appears, his presence ominous almost fearful. He pulls me aside with mom lingering nearby one eye on me, one eye on the boy. His words are unclear but his tone undeniably forceful; when he is done he calls to the boy who looks up and follows him without question.  I seem to be trapped where I stand, now in the middle of the courthouse lobby. The walls are stone cold, the marble floor dull and gray, there is but one chandelier lit. The bulbs reminiscent of movie marquees from the 70s, only these one circular, the glass frosted. I look toward the staircase, the boy grows smaller and smaller in the distance. A woman resembling my mother walks over to me, holds me close and whispers with a soft Irish brogue, “It is for the best my love.” I feel my heart break, and my body starts to shiver uncontrollably. And that’s when I wake up at 11AM feeling ill and disoriented, hungry yet nauseous, mind unclear and foggy.