carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"Her Hobbies Were Hiding, And Lying About Hiding."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

It was like a British film noir—quirky and menacing at the same time. And it was almost entirely in black&white.

A man had killed most of his family. They lived in a small housing community made up of very small fifties era houses, and they lived in several of the houses—his parents in one with one of his sisters, another sister and her husband and children in another house, an aunt and another of his sister's in a third house. The man—whose name I don't know—lived in a house by himself.

When the dream started, he had killed everyone but the aunt and the sister who lived with her. The police were aware of this, but after talking to his psychiatrist, it was decided that he should remain where he was and the aunt and sister would need to hide. Everyone knew he was planning to kill them as well. The police were still investigating.

Then something happened with the aunt, but I'm not sure what, except she was bringing home groceries in the middle of the night. She was screaming

The police showed up to investigate some more and they took the aunt back into her house to hide while the man prowled around outside and stole her groceries. The sister, who was a little gir, was hidden more carefully than before; the police wrapped her up like a box of gift candy, with bright fancy paper.

(The wrapping paper is the only part of the dream that makes any sense, and it's the only part that was in color. OK, it doesn't really make sense, but I know where it came from. I've been watching That Girl, and the wrapping paper came from a bright spangly dress she wore in an episode yesterday.)

Once the girl was wrapped up, she became an actual box of candy and they put her on a shelf in the back of a closet.

Then the police decided to trap the man and actually put him in prison, so they sent the aunt outside to walk around so he could attack her, and they put the box of candy on the front stoop. They were still hunting him when I woke up.


This is the kind of dream I've been having lately, dark and menacing and full of gloom. I also seem to have them more when I sleep on my back.

I wish I could say it seemed unrealistic, but except for the girl turning into a box of candy, it all seems more than probable, women being expected to hide while men who want to murder them roam around free.


*Shawn Spencer
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"OK, Let's Say Hypothetically That It's Not Hypothetical."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The other night I dreamed all night long, involved, plot-driven dreams that exhausted me.

The worst one was about a man who murdered his young daughter. He drowned her and made it look like an accident. He dressed a wooden doll in her clothes—or dressed her in the doll's clothes, it changed—and put one or the other of them in the swimming pool, so it looked like the doll was just floating there, which sometimes it was. The body just floated there while everyone thought the little girl was missing and hunted for her. When it was discovered that the doll was really the little girl, the man stood by the side of the pool and pretended to cry.

I have zero idea where any of this came from.

Then I dreamed that I was going on vacation by spending a week at my friend Pam's house. (Pam lives walking distance from work, so there wasn't much travel involved. In fact, I think I walked over.) When I got there, we immediately did what you always do when you're spending your vacation in the same city you live in, with someone you work with: we changed into gorilla suits and put on ballerina outfits over them. Not tutus, the longer net skirts. I kept calling them bridesmaids' dresses. And then we spend the evening jumping up and down on the bed.

I really know how to live it up.

And I have zero idea where that came from, either.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I'm going through my usual spring-is-killing me instability. I know, you don't think it's spring. But under the ground, the plants are starting to do things, and inside me the same thing is happening and I can feel it and it's unsettling. I have lots of weird little aches and pains, I feel like crying, and I'm very, very cranky.

I saw Diane on Saturday and she's very pleased with how I'm handling this. It's not making me as nuts as it used to.

It's good to be told that because honestly, I don't remember. It feels the same inside.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The other evening I watched a German adaptation of The Colour Out of Space by H. P. Lovecraft. It seems to me that the colour out of space is always purple. The movie was in black & white, but the colour was still purple.

It wasn't scary; it was sad. I'm in that kind of mood, where horror is tragedy.


*Adrian Monk
carose59: health matters (an intuition of mortality)
"Oh, Great, I Have To Work. I'm Always Working When The World Ends."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-


This isn't a menopause thing, it's a Cymbalta-withdrawal thing, and you have no idea how happy this makes me. I thought I was either dying or losing my mind—those are my default assumptions about anything that happens to me. An unpleasant chemical reaction to the lack of a drug in my system is like a picnic in the park compared to either of those.

I'm crying a lot lately, too. That could also be a withdrawal thing, or it could be just me going back to being me, and I can deal with it. Maybe this is also why I've been feeling sort of dizzyish lately. Cymbalta. Actually, lack of Cymbalta. Not panic attacks, not anxiety, an actual real not-dying thing happening to me.

You know what that means? It means I get to be nice to myself. It means I don't have to be stern and unforgiving when I can't do perfectly ordinary things like drive to the north side of town where I've driven many, many times before. I can stop feeling like a failure because my stupid behavior is being caused by an actual thing instead of just my mind suddenly forgetting that driving over a bridge is perfectly safe.

I cannot tell you how wonderful this is.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

In other news, I'm reading this book called, What Alice Forgot, and it's one of the things that's had me on the edge of tears. It's about a woman who gets amnesia and loses ten years of her memory—ten years in which she had three children, her best friend died, her beloved sister drifted out of her life, and she and her husband are getting a divorce. And she can't understand why her sister and husband seem to hate her because the last thing she remembers is being happily married and close to her sister. I feel so sorry for her, though it looks like things might work out.

It's a relief to actually cry about this, instead of just absorbing it and having the sadness be a part of me. Crying drains off the poisoned groundwater, of which I have oceans. Really, it's amazing I don't cry more.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I dreamed about my mother the other night. She was alive again—that is, had been dead and now wasn't. My mind is very stubborn on this subject. And I was so annoyed because she had all of these chores she wanted me to do, and then she tells me brightly, "And on Saturday you don't have to do any chores because we're going to spend the whole day cooking and baking," as though she was taking me on that picnic in the park instead of expecting me to spend a whole day in the kitchen. And all I could think was, "I don't fucking want to spend my day cooking! How is that not a chore?!"

And I was wondering when she was going to die again.

I hope I'm not supposed to feel bad about this, because I don't. I find it funny. I loved my mother, but we didn't have the perfect relationship and I spend a lot of energy not being angry—and not showing I was angry when I couldn't avoid feeling it—and I'm relieved not to have to do that anymore. I'm relieved to be able to feel the unacceptable emotions that have always been there.


*Dr. John Carter
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"I Don't Know, It's Authentic . . . Dead-Something."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

First I dreamed about more criminal activity, though I wasn't involved in it.

I was driving around in the little area in my neighborhood, just to the other side of Emerson Avenue. It's strange back in there. For about six blocks there are no north-south streets that go all the way through from 16th Street to 21st Street (the bigger streets where there are stoplights) and Emerson to Ritter Avenue. Also, there are more than four streets between 16th and 21st, and they wind around. They're all number streets, but there's 18th and 19th Place. There's also a creek, which is probably why the streets don't go through.

Anyway, I was driving around there and I kept seeing cars coming from a dead end. Somehow this told me that a crime had been committed and the police had set up a roadblock, and those cars were going to the dead end to turn around. (I'm very intuitive in my dreams.) So instead of continuing the way I had been, I got turned around to take a different route home.

There was lots of traffic because the police were looking for Brad Pitt. I don't know what he was supposed to have done. I decided to go to my grandmother's house on the south side.

(My grandmother's house isn't there anymore, it was torn down years ago and to the best of my knowledge, nothing has ever been built on the lot. But the house Pat and I lived in before this one reminded me a lot of that house, though the walls weren't old turquoise.)

There was a family gathering at my grandmother's house—and my grandmother, dead lo, these many years ago, was there. I told her about the manhunt for Brad Pitt and she offered me a cup of punch, which I took.

It wasn't a party, and it might have been a funeral because everyone was very subdued and wearing black. My grandmother turned on the radio so we could all listen to the news reports about Brad Pitt, and there was speculation that he might be hiding upstairs, but nobody went to look.

There were a lot of dead relatives there—in fact, mostly dead relative, but not my parents. And Pat was there, in a wheelchair, and my cousin Andrea was also there, also in a wheelchair. (I don't know why Andrea was in a wheelchair; she doesn't need one in real life. Also, she's not dead.) We were standing by a door that never existed that went to the basement. (There was a basement, just not a door to it in this location) and we were discussing who could get down the stairs in a wheelchair "best." I'm thinking best meant without injury or falling out of the chair, and I was trying to dissuade Pat and Andrea from trying to find out because I was pretty sure there was no "best" in this situation.

I woke up before either of them could try to wheel down the basement steps.

Then Saturday night I dreamed that my aunt Shirley (dead) had come to visit my mother (also dead.) I wasn't entirely sure where my mother was, but my cousins did and we went to see how she was. It turns out she was living in a small apartment about a Dollar General store. Rather than go in and upstairs, we climbed up on the the awning that was level with her window and just looked in. She was fine. She had friends visiting her. My aunt was there.

That sounds like a metaphor.


*Evan R. Lawson
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"They Might Not Know! They Might Be Idiots!"*

-:- -:- -:- -:-


A few nights ago I dreamed Pat was alive and it was back when she was healthy and we did stuff. We were living where we did before we moved into my grandparents' house. It wasn't an apartment, but the bottom half of a two-story house and all the walls were painted blue. (That might not be true, about the color of the walls, but in my dreams those walls are always an old almost-turquoise color. If you know what old rose looks like, imagine it in turquoise.)

It was summertime and we were involved in some sort of church charity for children. They put on circuses and fairs for children which . . . apparently made money. It seemed like the circus/fair was for the children, but they must have been making money as well because I stole it.

This was the third year in a row we'd been involved in the charity. I don't know what we did. But the money was kept in a downspout extender (I can't even begin to imagine where this came from—feeling like I'm pouring money down the drain?) and the first year we accidentally took it with us when we packed up to go home. (How you accidentally pack up a downspout extender when you don't own one is beyond me.) We didn't return it and nobody asked about it.

So the next year I took it on purpose.

And nothing happened.

So now we come to present-day in the dream. The circus/fair thing was just ending and I was making plans to steal the money again. Pat was waiting in the car, a car we never had. It looked something like a 1960 Chevrolet El Camino—it had a truck bed instead of back seats and a trunk. She'd thrown our luggage in the back and had the engine running. She was wearing shorts and cowboy boots. She was an outlaw.

I had to climb a ladder to get the downspout because this year they'd threaded it through a basketball hoop as a security measure. (I don't know.) And unlike the two previous times, this was all in plain view of lots of people. Nobody seemed to be paying attention and I was determined to get the money, but I was having trouble getting the downspout loose and bills were falling out and floating away.

I'm pretty sure I finally got the money, but the head of the church was chasing us when I woke up.

Yes. In my dreams, I steal money from churches and children's charities.


*Nick Greenwald
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"Oh, I Like It, It Has An Air Of Conspiracy To It."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

My dream took place in a 1950's style musical. It was about a dim-witted stage manager engaged to a beautiful, dark-haired starlet. The starlet was just getting her big break in a big musical. (Yes, it's a musical within a musical. My dreams can be very complicated.) The stage manager overhears someone plotting to kill the starlet and calls the police, who add security to the theatre. (I think this bit came from The Phantom of the Opera.)

The murder is part of a much larger plot having to do with smuggling military secrets to Russia. The bad guys all look alike—tall and willowy, like ballet dancers. They're all dressed sort of like Boris Badanov, only in black leotards and tights, and the fabric of their black coats was light and gauzy. At one point they do this wonderful dance number, twirling and flowing across the stage, singing about their plan to drug the stage manager and frame him for the starlet's murder.

They're setting him up as secretly being a homicidal maniac. They have notes he wrote to the cast and have scissored them into meaningless phrases, which they plan to leave with the body. This would be the evidence that he was crazy and that he killed her.

They drug the stage manager, but he groggily escapes. Then they drug the starlet and leave her on her bed in her standard early '50's crummy hotel room. What they don't know is that when the stage manager escaped, he hid in her room, behind the dresser. So when they bring her in, he hears their whole plan--but he's too drugged up to do anything about it.

Except for the bit about The Phantom of the Opera, the only part of this I can place is the overhearing stuff, which was a plot point in an episode of The Good Wife that I watched the other day. Why it was important enough to dream about, I don't know. It was certainly entertaining, and the dance number with the Russian spies was very impressive.

Actually, now that I think of it, that might have come from Bye, Bye Birdie, which I also just recently watched—the drugging of the Russian ballet dancers to speed them up so Birdie will have time to sing. Not that any of that explains why. My brain has billions and billions of things in it and why it dredges up what it does to put in dreams is something I will never fully understand.

Oh, and last week I dreamed that Murphy Brown and Linda Ellerbee were covering Hillary Clinton's campaign, which if had happened twenty years ago could very easily have happened.


*Venus Flytrap

Three random things

Friday, 20 May 2016 11:14 pm
carose59: crime and other violations (i read the news today oh boy)
"Yeah, Good News From My HMO. What Do You Think, I Won A Free Colonoscopy?""*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The other day at work we had a health evaluation thing that's connected to how much our insurance costs. It consisted of a blood pressure check and a blood test for the standard stuff.

I was expecting a finger stick, but there were needles.

I'm not afraid of needles; I just loathe the whole experience, how hard it is to find a viable vein. I hate how they don't take me seriously when I tell them how hard it is; I hate getting stuck multiple times; I hate how I feel like this is my own fault for being fat.

I was lucky. The phlebotomist was very, very good and got me with one stick. He was also very nice.

The next day I got an email letting me know my results were available.

My numbers weren't anywhere near as bad as I was afraid they'd be. All the bad stuff was too high, of course, but not oh, my God, I'm going to die! bad. This is good, because it means I can do something about it without being paralyzed. That's what happens when the doctor acts like something being a little high is EMERGENCY! CODE RED! First I freeze, then I cry, then I just quit eating until I'm too hungry to think, then I eat whatever I can get fast, which is seldom the best thing. This, I can deal with.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The other night I dreamed I was having lunch with Christy.

We were sitting outside at a restaurant in Lansing, Michigan. We were saying goodbye, in a very friendly way. We'd decided not to talk for a while—a few years—but it wasn't the "I'm never speaking to you again" situation that happened in real life. It was nice, but bittersweet. I wish that's how things had really been.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Could somebody explain to me what happened to the word cheeseburger?

I like hamburgers. I do not like cheese on them. It used to be, you could order a hamburger and that's what you'd get. Now, if you're lucky, they ask you if you want cheese on it (which just makes me want to say, "Did I say I wanted a cheeseburger?"). But chances are they don't even ask, because it just comes with the damn cheese and if you don't say you don't want it, that's what you get.

What the hell?

They need to just keep their cheese to themselves unless they're asked for it.


*Adrian Monk
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"No, My Brain Is Distracting Me, And There's Nothing Anyone Can Do About It."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Sunday night, I dreamed the police were looking for my cousin Patrick. They wanted to question him about a list they had found—a list of kitten names. They suspected he was planning to get another kitten. Although having a cat wasn't a problem, conspiracy to acquire a kitten was a very serious offense.

I've been thinking lately that cats are authority figures in my dreams, and this backs that up. Because the only one (besides Patrick himself) who would object to him having a kitten would be Little Cat.

Monday night, I was stuck in a loop of promos for BBC comedies. They were all amazingly glitzy and glamorous, with sparkling chandeliers and long, curved gilt staircases, and the laugh tracks were really loud. I was somehow both inside the stories and outside, watching (which happens a lot in my dreams), and friend kept recommending various show to me, but I felt no enthusiasm for any of them. The shows, that is. I have no idea where this came from.

Tuesday night, I went shopping with my mother. We went to a flea market—not someplace my mother would have been interested in. My father's the one I got my love of flea markets and garage sales from. I didn't want to go. I told her I have a very hard time making decisions about buying things unless I have a specific purpose for what I'm buying, and I really didn't need anything. But she insisted and we went in.

It was in a tent, a big black one. At the first table, there was a man selling iguanas. He kept them in shoeboxes—it was like they went into suspended animation until they were taken from their boxes. He was playing with one when we came in, a bright yellow one, the color of a gumdrop. It didn't look real. He started telling this horrible story about cats attacking and killing iguanas.

I kept trying to leave, but my mother and this man were insistent that what I really needed was an iguana—but not the yellow one. The man got out a different box, and inside it was something he said was an iguana. It was more like a skink, only it was really big and had very subdued rainbow colored fur. I did not like the looks of it and didn't want it, but they kept telling me Meg would think it was another cat (like Meg would consider that a good thing). I don't remember how it turned out, although I do remember feeling very relieved when I woke up.

Very often as I start writing down a dream, I won't know where the component parts came from, but as I write, realizations occur. With this one, I think the skink is actually a cucumber I bought the other day for Meg. Not to eat, or to scare him with, but to keep the ants away from his food when he eats in the bathroom window. I don't know, sometimes it seems like my mind is just playing a weird version of MadLibs.


*Trace Beaulieu
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
OK, A Plastic Cupcake, A Picture Of A Candle, And I Promise We Won't Have Any Fun At All.*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

So, I dreamed I was in a cave in Sardinia (which is especially impressive when you consider I don't actually know where Sardinia is). I was there to help a recently former friend excavate the cave in search of historical artifacts from her family. I have no idea if she actually has any family from Sardinia.

Only there weren't any historical artifacts. Instead what there was was a lot of papers strewn about. So I spent a lot of time picking up and collating papers in a cave. Except for the cave part, that sounds a lot like home publishing. (The strewn-about papers come from WKRP, an episode where Johnny tears up some paper to make on-the-spot confetti.)

Next I was in the old West, in a universe that was like some kind of cross between Petticoat Junction and Best of the West. (If you don't know Best of the West, you should check it out. It's an early-eighties Western spoof, and the late, great Leonard Frey was in it.) I don't know what the point of this was; the only thing I remember is there was a stair lift thing only in stead of being inside the building (it wasn't a house), it was on the outside. We were using it to move a piano to the second floor. I think we were going to put it on the roof. (I also have no idea who "we" were, though I think Betty Jo Bradley might have been there.)

That was earlier in the week. Last night, in my first dream I had a black and white cat roaming around my house and I was at a total loss what to do about it. I found him coming out of the kitchen and asked him what he was doing there. He told me he'd been watching Meg for a while and had snuck in when I had the door open, and that he was looking for food.

It's weird about animals in my dreams. Any other animal I dream about is usually really some other animal; if I see a goat in a movie, I might dream about a giraffe that night. But cats are different. Cats are always themselves, and they very often talk to me. Sometimes they come to my house to question me.

And this cat was the yellow cat the other day. He's a young one, fully grown and homeless. (I know he's homeless because he's got a tipped ear, so he's a Trap-Neuter-Release.) He seemed like maybe I could coax him to me if I tried, but Meg would not approve.

Later I dreamed about this movie. A movie theatre was closing, and the owner was doing this odd thing: he was running some kind of marathon. It was several movies from evening 'til dawn, then no movies until the next afternoon. And there were these four (sometimes five) guys in their forties who had been friends in high school. They came in the evening to see the movies and intended to stay all the next day until the next movie started. I'm not sure if this was to avoid paying again or what, but the theatre owner didn't have a problem with it. Their friends and families kept stopping by to visit with them while they waited for the afternoon movie to start. I'm pretty sure it was supposed to be a comedy. (You know, that plot is ridiculous enough, it probably could get made into a movie, if somebody in the movie business came up with it.)


*Natalie Teeger
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"On The Way Out Here, They Sit Back And Enjoy The Ride. They Talk To Me. Sometimes We Stop And Watch The Sunsets And Look At The Birds Flying. Sometimes We Stop And Watch The Birds When There Ain't No Birds . . . And Look At The Sunsets When It's Raining. We Have A Swell Time."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Pat and I were living in the last place we lived before we moved into my grandmother's house (where she died and I still live) and we were the same ages we were then (late twenties/early thirties). We had a van and there was something wrong with it—something that kept changing.

A young guy who had been going around offering to mow lawns said he could fix it. He seemed pleasant enough, but somehow how I could see that he was secretly making fun of us and wasn't trustworthy. This was an ability that I had gotten from Shirley Jackson, and throughout the dream I kept thinking that she must have been depressed from a very early age, being able to tell what people were really thinking.

Still, we let him fix the van, and he did get it running. There was all this stuff with him showing us things we should know—like how to tell if we had flat tire. That part really annoyed me; I told him I'd changed a flat tire before, I certainly knew what one looked like. But he kept going on about how helpless women are in the world. By this time Pat was getting pissed off with him, too.

Then we got in the van with some friends of his. It was very confusing; we were in our van, with him driving, with his van following—apparently not driven by anyone. We were supposed to be taking him back to where his van was, which I suddenly realized was stupid since it was right there behind us.

Just as I noticed this, he and his friends were gone, into their own van, driving in a different direction. We were in Garfield Park in a van that was moving but nobody was driving. Pat and I were both (quite reasonably) freaked out about this, though it somehow confirmed what I'd known about the lawn mowing guy. Then I climbed into the driver's seat and put my foot on the brakes. The van didn't respond right away, which is apparently normal when it's been driving itself for a while, but after a while I got it under control.

I asked Pat why we didn't just go home, and she said we had been on our way to my cousin Darby's, but it was starting to get dark now and maybe we should go home.

We were moving into a different apartment, one on the south side. I said that it seemed very strange to be moving to the south side; the farthest south we'd ever lived was Washington Street and I wasn't used to facing south. (Washington Street is US 40, and it's the street that bisects Indianapolis into north and south. We lived on the north side of Washington—clearly not very far south at all.) But we weren't in Indianapolis, we were in Brooklyn, in the Bay Ridge area on the Belt Parkway, only I could see the Indianapolis skyline in the distance. But none of this was upsetting. It was a cool blue and pink summer evening with dusk setting in and we were very happy.


*E. J. Lofgren

Two dreams

Wednesday, 30 March 2016 08:29 pm
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"I Own The Gorilla! The Gorilla Says Yes!"*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

I don't get either one of these at all.

Last night I dreamed I lived in a big apartment with several other people including Emily and Penelope from Criminal Minds and Laine, who I work with. Other people from Criminal Minds were hanging around, and were very happy to see Emily.

We all kept our jewelry on racks and hangers in one big room. We didn't share jewelry; we just kept it all in the same place. It looked like a jewelry store.

Laine was showing us these shamrock earring she had. There were three of them, one with a small white dot on it. Laine told us that the third earring was something you got when you worked in a bank—I think it was American Fletcher National Bank, which doesn't even exist anymore and hasn't for some time. She was puzzled by it, because she couldn't remember ever having worked in a bank. (What's even stranger is, Laine doesn't have pierced ears—which I know—and I don't think she wears earrings.)

There were also two cats living with us. They were both big and fluffy long-haired black and white cats. One of them was perfectly ordinary-looking, but it was from outer space. The other one had very strange paws. They were shaped like stars. This cat, however, was a regular cat. Although I think both of them talked, because they were the ones who told me one of them was from outer space. They took me over to the window to show me which planet it was.

I did recognize the earrings—I have a pair kind of like them, only with dangles. They used to be Pat's

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The other night I dreamed about a circus act. There were three elephants and a monkey. I have no idea what they did, but the owner of the circus kept saying, "It was supposed to be three monkeys and an elephant, not three elephants and a monkey! What kind of act is that?"

I have some strange people in my dreams.


*The Gorilla Owner, Stand-In
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
You Raced A Piano? Hot Damn, Herb's All Right."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Pat and I were driving around the west side of town, something we did pretty often when she was at Goodwill. I don't think we were that young; I think we were living together. But there was a funny hesitancy, a shyness to our relationship that never existed in real life. It was as though we had gone from being acquaintances to intimates with no gradation in between and we weren't sure how to proceed.

It was night—at least, it was dark out—but we were talking as though the day was just beginning and trying to decide what to do with it. And I don't think it was early morning, I think it really was night. We were both very reluctant to suggest anything, for fear it would throw the relationship out of whack somehow.

Finally we settled on something, I don't remember what. And then we decided to go get Chinese food.

I don't remember us actually getting the food, but then we had it and were on the road again. Pat made a left turn under an overpass, across a grassy median strip, drove a few more feet, then made another left turn—I couldn't see where—and the car disappeared. At the first left, I was no longer in the car, and I couldn't find it or Pat.

I believe I called Pat's sister, who seemed to know where Pat was, but didn't tell me. I spent some time walking around a parking lot, looking for the car.

When I woke up, I repeated the details of the dream to myself so I'd remember it. This turned out not to be a problem since I immediately had the same dream. Only this time I remembered having had it.

The feeling was the same: new and wonderful but strangely diffident. I was very happy.

Then Pat made the left turn under the overpass and I was standing at the side of the highway, watching the tail lights disappear. But this time I knew what was going on, so I took out my cell phone and called Becky while I chased the car. I ran across the street to the median strip, then crossed the highway going the other way. I'd lost the car, but I kept going after it. I wasn't going to let Pat disappear again.

But again, I didn't find the car or Pat.


*Venus Flytrap

Dreams again

Tuesday, 23 February 2016 08:38 pm
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"Of Course Not. It's The Boars. They're Simply Pining For You To Hunt Them. Did They Send A Delegation For You?"*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Had an odd dream the other night. (Is there such a thing as a dream that isn't odd? Have you ever awakened and thought, "Well, that was perfectly ordinary, a quite reasonable story told in chronological order."?)

Anyway, I was at Robert Downey Jr.'s apartment in New York (I have no idea if he even really has one). It was very large and had a beautiful view. He was having sort of a party—a bunch of people over, anyway, and for some reason he and I were sitting in a cluttered corner, going through his vinyl collection to decide what he wanted to convert to CD. He also had this odd machine he'd made—it was two robot hands and arms, and they'd pull the albums off the shelves and remove them from the covers. I don't know how much help it really was, but I remember saying something like, "Why didn't we have this years ago, it would have mad things so much easier."

We were listening to the other people, the ones partying, and making comments about what they were saying. Then I suddenly realized that we didn't really know each other, and I probably shouldn't even be there, let alone in this strangely intimate setting, and I started to explain that the reason I was talking to him was that nobody else seemed to know what I was talking about.

Then the police showed up to arrest him. Only they didn't take him anywhere, they just stayed and had drinks. They were arresting him for carrying a gun (which is apparently illegal in my dreams, even if it isn't anywhere else) and he kept laughing about it. He'd take a gun out of his jacket pocket and say, "They can't convict me of carrying a gun because this isn't my gun. This is my other gun." Then he'd pick up a different gun and say, "This is my gun." In the dream it was very funny.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Something strange started happening to my dreams after Pat died. I now start dreaming before I go to sleep. I don't really know how else to describe it, except that I'm lying in bed, having a dream, but I'm not asleep yet. I don't have any more control over them than I do my sleeping dreams, except that if something is bothering me in one of them, I can open my eyes and make it stop.


*Princess Flavia
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"My Word! Are There Important People Downstairs?"*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The other night, I dreamed I was at a big, ritzy party with a friend. I don't know who this friend was, but we were friends from Starsky & Hutch, and we hadn't seen each other for a long time. It was all in black & white.

The party was in a shopping mall, and it was for a politician I didn't know, and I wasn't sure why I was there. But it was a nice party and I was having a good time talking to my friend.

We were standing by the elevator, waiting to go down, and I suddenly remembered that the last time I had been in Baltimore (which was where we were, apparently), it was for a movie. "Do you remember the last time I was here?" I asked, rather giddy. "It was when I flew in to see that movie."

In fact, I had done that twice, I had flown to Baltimore to see a couple of Paul Newman movies. (Evidently I'm a madcap in my dreams, getting on planes on the spur of the moment to fly across the country to see a movie I could easily check out of the library.)

That was when I noticed that Paul Newman was at the party, and would be sitting next to me at the movie that was to follow. (I don't know how I noticed that second part.) I was hoping to get a chance to talk to him, maybe to tell him I fly across the country just to see his movies, I don't know. But instead I found myself in conversation with a director. I knew that I knew who he was, but I couldn't remember his name. He kept talking to me, and I kept hoping he'd either keep talking or go away before I had to introduce him, or call him by name. I told him about the flying across the country thing, and I said it loud in hopes that Paul Newman would hear me.

The elevator arrived and we wanted to go down, but my friend had to climb over the counter (don't ask me why, or what counter, I don't know) and she couldn't do it. I was trying to help her, but I just kept thinking that it was just like when Pat and I would get on an elevator and she had to climb over a counter first and couldn't. (Yeah, this comes up all the time.)

I needed to leave to catch a plane because I had just realized that the movie conflicted with something I had to do at home. I kept trying to work out a way I could stay, figuring the time difference, but since I live in Indianapolis, and there isn't any time difference between Indianapolis and Baltimore, it really wasn't working out. I got on a plane and it became a movie animation of a plane flying cross-country. And then I woke up.

I know why Paul Newman and flying across country to see his movies. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid is going to be at AMC next week, and I would like to see it on the big screen again. But would I like it enough to brave my anxiety and drive to either the north or south sides of town? It will depend a lot on the weather. The politician part is just all the politics going on right now. It was in b&w because of a documentary I just watched on Orson Welles, and somebody talking about how much better everybody looked in b&w, how glamorous. I don't know about the rest of it.


*Nick Potter
carose59: amusements (a medley of extemporanea)
"Please Don't Listen To Me. Sometimes I Don't Know What I'm Talking About."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

Last night, I dreamed about Tim Shaw** all night. And I mean all night. I'd wake up, turn over, think, "Why the hell am I dreaming about Tim Shaw?" go back to sleep, and dream about him some more!

The only part I remember clearly is that he and Judith Collins** were in love, and he was selling flavored dog bones. He had a company, though I don't know what they did because he was stealing the dog bones—from dogs—repackaging them, and selling them. Judith knew about this and didn't care, but Edward** was very upset (as you know he would be). There was a big argument in the drawing room.

There was also something about a congressional hearing, but I don't know if it was about stolen dog bones or what.

Tim Shaw. I spent my whole weekend watching film noir, and I dream about Tim Shaw. Weird.

(The dog bone part isn't strange; it's Meg's cat food. He scatters his kibble around when he eats, and I was scooping it up and putting it back in his dish right before bed last night. Why I dreamed about it, I don't know. It was hardly the highlight of my day.)

-:- -:- -:- -:-

In real life news, here's the doorstop story.

I was wheeling my mother out of the rehab center, and bemoaning my lack of a doorstop. My mother said, "I use my iron for a doorstop." (It's a cast iron—iron that came from my grandparents' house.)

I said, "Yes, but I don't want to carry that around with me, it's kind of heavy. You'd think I'd be able to make a doorstop."

Then she said, "You could use a big rock."

Which started me laughing. "I don't want to carry a big rock around with me either! What I need is a wedge of some kind!" Which started her laughing.

-:- -:- -:- -:-

A small thought:

I was re-watching Help! again the other day. That movie never fails to make me happy. Anyway, one of my (and Pat's) favorite scenes is when they're at Scotland Yard and the phone rings. The Inspector answers and says it's for The Famous Ringo. And John says, "Hold on, it's them! Only Paul and I know we're here!"

And George says, with quiet disgruntlement, "I know we're here."

I love that moment for its humor and absurdity, but also for its odd poignancy. It seems to encapsulate the whole politics of the Beatles as a group: John believes that only he and Paul know where they are. Of course George and Ringo also know where they are; George protests being left out, while Ringo says nothing because, fuck, he could still be with Rory and the Hurricanes. This is much better. If John wants to think only he and Paul know where they are, so what? That's just John.

*Les Nessman
**a character on Dark Shadows

Two dreams

Thursday, 17 December 2015 07:38 am
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"Guess What I Found? More Nothing Than Usual."*

-:- -:- -:- -:-

The other night I dreamed I was living in a big New York apartment with a great view. Sadly, it was just as messy as my real house is, but I was still having people over: an old friend from my Starsky & Hutch fan days, and her husband (who doesn't exist, as she's never been married).

I remember showing them the view, then my friend disappeared and I was talking to her husband about some minute, obscure subject, going on at great length. I knew he wasn't interested, but I kept talking anyway.

Somehow, I got to the kitchen, which was definitely not my kitchen—it was spacious, and even it had a remarkable view. It also had an island.

What it didn't have was food. I hadn't made anything for dinner, and I got quite frantic, trying to come up with something I could make very quickly so they wouldn't notice I'd forgotten. Pat was there in a wheelchair—for some reason she wasn't going to eat with us, and I don't think they even knew she was there, or maybe even knew she was alive. I hit on the idea of microwaving some potatoes—I had three nice potatoes—then I realized that not only hadn't I cooked for my dinner guests, I hadn't fed Pat in a very long time. (I don't know why she couldn't feed herself.) So I started cutting them up so everyone could have some. Pat seemed remarkably unconcerned about not having eaten in who-knows-how-long, and thought my potato idea was brilliant. I was also going to make sandwich steaks, which are fast.

But when I went back to the living room, my guests were gone. I decided they couldn't abide my messy house and had left. I think other things happened after that, but I don't remember what.

Then last night I dreamed I was going on vacation with a bunch of people—a couple with some kids, and an aunt of mine. Not a real aunt, just a woman who was my aunt in this dream. I've seen her in movies, but I don't remember who she is.

The father was obsessed with Friday the 13th tie-in novels.

Think about that for a second. Would you go on vacation with a man who talked about nothing but Friday the 13th tie-in novels? (Is there even such a thing? If there is, somewhere, someone is obsessed with it, but I wouldn't go on vacation with them.) He had them all with him, and he kept talking about the finer points, like character development, and comparing the different authors' writing styles. Oddly, I was not very interested, and for some reason I told him I couldn't remember what the movie was about.

My aunt had brought chair cushions. You know the kind you put on dining room table chairs, that have ties to attach them to the chair so they don't slide off. She brought about fifty of them, all of them with corduroy covers in dull shades of brown and greyish-blue. She was very excited about them, and she wanted me to keep them in my room. That was all right with me, I had lots of space.

My room turned out to be a cabin, quite spacious, with several industrial-sized fans. I could not have been happier about this. (I would love a fan like that, to pull stale air out of my house and fresh air in, but I don't think I need three of them.) I was just piling all the cushions in a corner when I woke up.

The only parts of either of these dreams I understand are Pat being in a wheelchair (I've been dealing with taking my mother home and back to the rehab place, and she's in a wheelchair) and the food thing. My mother's been complaining about them giving her too much potatoes—she's not supposed to have them at all—and when I went to Wendy's for her, I just automatically bought her a baked potato. I didn't give it to her, but I think she wanted it, because she kept looking in the bag for something more than the sandwich. I ate the potato myself.

I don't know what the hell was going on in that second dream.


*Wesley Wyndam-Price
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"I Was Moved, But Not Far."*

-:- -:- -:-

First, Pat (who had not been dead) and I went to Poland to get her a diamond engagement ring. I don't know why Poland; in the dream, I don't think I even knew we were going there, and after a very short time, I wanted desperately to go home. We never seemed to be staying anyplace—we were outside all the time, or in lobbies or shops or restaurants. And it looked like Poland was still in the 1930's, and it was winter.

Pat found a lovely ring, and the jeweler told her she could wear it for a week to see if she liked it. Only, that meant staying a week, and I really wanted to go home. I kept looking at a map, drawing routes for how to get back—apparently we had driven? only we didn't have a car, and I couldn't figure out a way to drive back. We'd have to take a plane, and how exactly had we gotten there in the first place? I kept asking Pat, but she was very involved with her soon-to-be ring and not paying much attention to me.

Then it was Switzerland, and Ingrid Bergman. She was quite young, and very sick, and had come to a base camp on the Swiss Alps to see a world renowned doctor, who was climbing the mountain. He examined her in a tent and told her to go to the hotel and wait for the messenger, he'd send her the results of his tests—such as they were.

After she'd gone, something happened to the doctor. I think he was shot with an arrow. He was lying in the snow, bleeding, and he told the messenger not to tell Ingrid she was dying, because apparently if she didn't know she was dying, she wouldn't actually die. "One of us should live," the doctor said nobly, before dying in the messenger's arms.


*Mr. Straussman
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
"Guess What I Found? More Nothing Than Usual."*

-:- -:- -:-

I had gone to the basement parking facility under my house to have sex in my car with . . . I have no idea. I don't even know why I'd go to the car to have sex with somebody, since I live alone. Not to mention, there is no basement parking facility; my garage is just a regular, under-the-house garage. This place looked more like the garage under Central Library.

Anyway, once I got down there, I was somebody else, but I don't know who. If there was sex, I don't remember it; I just woke up in my car, myself again. I went back upstairs and into my house, which had way more windows than my actual house does, and much less clutter. And all the doors between rooms were glass, and there were more of them: more doors, and more rooms.

I had the feeling something was wrong. I had come in through the backdoor, and as I got to the front door, I found that the door was broken. That's when I knew my house had been broken into again.

My laptop was gone, along with a bag of red bell peppers I bought last week. As I went out the front door, I could see a trail of pieces of bell pepper in the snow (there was snow) like a trail of blood. I went back in the house, and consulted with Meg (OK, I really do that, though he never gives me any advice).

I went in to take a nap (yes, another one) and woke up thinking the break-in had just been a dream. And then I heard voices and realized that not only wasn't it a dream, the burglars were still in the house.

At first I hid behind a wall, trying to come up with a plan. I needed to get my mother, for reasons I don't know anymore. I needed my car, but I didn't think I could get to it. The burglars—I could see them from an overhead view—all looked exactly alike, like Stephen Baldwin with a bleach job that was growing out. They didn't seem to know I was in the house, so I was able to sneak out, and when I got outside, my mother was waiting with the car. She knew about the break-in. And we drove off.

It was an incredible relief to wake up.


*Wesley Wyndam-Price

Last night's dreams

Thursday, 26 March 2015 04:32 pm
carose59: the rose behind the fence (Default)
There’s Also A Subplot About A Guy Who Fucks The Sheep. It’s Tastefully Done.*

-:- -:- -:-

I was in a mall, standing in front of something that looked like a cross between a video game and one of those YOU ARE HERE signs. It had a touch screen, and you could decide . . . things. I don't really know what. There were several pages of options, like what language you wanted to use, and which element (air, fire, water, earth). I don't know what the point of this was, but I ended up with a beautiful picture that looked something like Whistler's Nocturne in Black and Gold (which is one of my favorite paintings). It was printed in a magazine—a really big magazine. (Big as in size, rather than really popular or influential. It was like eleven by fourteen inches.)

I tore the picture out and showed it to a friend, telling her I was going to frame it and hang it on my wall. She took it and folded it up and told me to put it in my pocket, which annoyed me, and I flattened it back out and stuck it back in the magazine.

There was an article about how Antonio Banderas had a huge head, and they proved it by showing a picture of just his head. Only it was just a really, really enlarged photo, and for some reason I was really pissed off about this. I had an argument with the magazine about it.

After that came the spelling bee stuff, which makes even less sense.

There was a spelling bee that was being held while the kids swam along a river. The best of the spellers was a girl who was a spelling savant (whatever that means). She was teaching the other children to spell as well as she did, and as she did, they started turning into small gold and jeweled frog charms. They kept swimming until they reached the ocean, then swam on to the Arctic Ocean. There was a lot of concern about this—though nobody tried to stop them—but a scientist explained that they were perfectly safe because the better speller you are, the more you're able to withstand cold temperatures. He didn't mention anything about them being made of gold and jewels.

They kept swimming, only instead of following the curve of the earth, they went in a straight line, first into the air, then into outer space, where they ended up in my picture.

I went back to the video game thing, to choose another scenario. But somehow I chose Egyptian as my language, and after that the screens didn't really offer any options. It was like, "Would you like to use the color brown?" and you could answer no, but then you couldn't go any further. It ended up giving me a very highly polished cave where Romulus and Remus lived, only they were Egyptian. They chased each other around a big rock while I was trying to talk to them—not easy, they were speaking Egyptian. (I know they're Roman, I don't know why they were speaking Egyptian.)

That's when the giant slug (it was a little shorter than me, which is still giant for a slug) showed up and began menacing me. It kept making snuffling noises at me. At first I tried to get away from it, but then I got very angry and told it that there was nothing it could do to me because I have a lot of German and Irish blood in me. I was giving it my entire genealogical breakdown when I woke up.


*BC, horrormovieaday.com

Posted simultaneously on LiveJournal and Dreamwidth.
carose59: dreams (whose mind watches itself)
I Know.  But I Do Not Approve.  And I Am Not Resigned.

-:- -:- -:-

Very vivid dream the other night, rather Kafkaesque.

I had been getting phone calls from someone who would tell me that Pat was still alive and that she'd be coming home in X number of days. Some of the time I didn't know who it was calling, and some of the time I knew, and I knew they couldn't be trusted. But I always believed them, and it always made me insanely happy, just utterly blissful. In three days, or four, or a week, Pat would be home. She had been kidnapped, she had been dead, she had been visiting her family in Florida, she had been in California, she was on the other side of town— The story kept changing, the number of days kept changing, but my crazy happiness was always the same.

For a day or so I would be counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Then I would start forgetting that she was coming home. First I couldn't remember how many days it was supposed to be, then I couldn't remember—had I missed her? Had she come and gone while I wasn't looking? I would start looking around my house for clues. I don't know what kind of clues these would be, but I kept looking in a dresser that belonged to my grandmother that was in a room in an apartment in a movie, which was not actually in my house, but that's the first place I'd look. And then I'd check under the bed. And I'd wonder if the phone call had been real, or if the person had been lying, or just what was going on.

Then I'd get another call.

Finally I called my friend, Renie, who was a private detective in California in my dream. (Really, she works in the same building I do, and not as a private detective. Or if she is one, she's really, really good.) I think she had Philip Marlow's office; all that was in B&W. I told her what had been going on, the phone calls, not knowing where Pat was, all of it, and she told me she'd find Pat for me.

I got calls from Pat's family—she was in a car, she was on her way, she was still in Florida, she was still dead, the story would change every time I talked to someone and sometimes I'd be happy because she was alive and coming home, and sometimes I couldn't remember how many days it had been since they said it would be two days, had I missed it? How could I forget?


Posted simultaneously on LiveJournal, Dreamwidth, and WordPress.

Dirge Without Music,
Edna  St. Vincent Millay

July 2017

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