I’m Dreaming of a Baby Elephant 

My dreams are technicolor wonders. Many mornings I wake up and feel like I’ve just attended the world premiere of a major Hollywood movie. Of course upon further reflection the dreams come closer to being low budget indie productions, but still quite entertaining. 

Take last night’s offering, for example. For some reason, Studly and I were living in an apartment complex. He sent me on an errand, and I drove around the inner courtyard of the complex trying to find an exit to the street. As I turned a corner I came face to face with the cutest baby elephant you’ve ever seen. 

I couldn’t wait to tell Studly, so I hurried back to our apartment where I discovered him dressed in a beige plaid suit. Beige. Plaid. I tried to tell him about the baby elephant, but he told me to hurry up and get dressed because he was going to be in a friend’s wedding. 

Most of my clothes were at our old house, but I quickly found a floral tutu type skirt in my closet and paired it with heels and a black t-shirt. As we set off in our car, the road became narrower, turning into a single lane, then a sidewalk, and finally something no wider than a curb. Our car morphed into a motorcycle and then a bicycle built for two as the road grew smaller.

Just before I woke up I looked back and the baby elephant was attempting to catch up to us. My arms ached with the need to cradle this little one. 

Interestingly enough, I’ve had the narrowing road appear in my dreams often. In my amateurish attempts to analyze my dreams I’ve come to believe that my subconscious is reminding me that my options are narrowing as I grow older. But the baby elephant indicates that there are still sweet surprises awaiting. Where are you little elephant?

Peace, people!

Old White Cars

My subconscious has been working overtime during many mangled hours of sleep. Since Trump secured the electoral college numbers to make him president-elect, I’ve awakened from uneasy dreams multiple times in the middle of every night with a horrible taste in my mouth and a lead ball feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m pretty sure that along with the nightmares I’ve developed an ulcer. Note to self: Buy stock in Rolaids.


A couple of nights ago I had a dream that keeps nagging at the corners of my mind. I know it’s political, and not even very subtle. Tell me what you think:

I’ve gone into a shopping mall leaving my beautiful blue car in a parking spot at quite a distance from the building, the better to get my 10,000 steps in for the day. After walking around the mall and trying on clothes in various boutiques, I return to the parking lot only to find my car has been taken. I’m devastated. The car was my favorite. 

I flag down a security guard on his little golf cart and we make several loops around the enormous parking lot with no success. Finally we call 911. When the police officers, Bill and Jill arrive I give them a detailed description of my car:

Medium blue, 2008 model, Chevy Allegiance.

“Ma’am,” Officer Bill says, “We’ll get right on that.”

“Can we give you a ride home?” asks Officer Jill.

As I’m getting into the officers’ patrol car, two older white men suddenly appear beside me. 

“We found your car!” exclaims Man #1.

“It’s right here!” enthuses Man #2.

And sure enough, there’s a huge car covered by a white cloth just a few parking spots away. I follow the two men who are so excited about showing me my car. With a flourish, they pull the covering away to reveal a beautiful antique car. It’s a gleaming white  Duesenberg.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” crowed Man #1. “It’s the 1933 model.”

“Yes, it’s lovely, but it isn’t my car.”

“It is now,” intoned Man #2. “Enjoy the ride.”


That’s when I awakened. Isn’t it amazing what one’s mind can do? A Chevy Allegiance? No such thing. A ’33 Duesenberg? 1933 was the year Hitler became chancellor of Germany. Coincidence? 

As Trump assembles his team of alt-right racists and hard core hawks, this dream has become even more nightmarish. I just want my blue car. 

Peace, people.



Parade of Celebrities 

My dreams have been chock full of celebrities lately. I suppose their nocturnal performances are subtle attempts by my psyche to heal itself during this soul-scarring election.

Last week Chris Hemsworth, in the guise of Thor, snuggled with me in dreamland: https://nananoyz5forme.com/2016/10/30/a-thor-in-my-side/


Since then, I’ve danced with James Franco at an Italian wedding. He approached me as I stood off to one side, gallantly bowing and asking me if I’d care to dance, and then twirled me about the marble dance floor as I giggled helplessly. 


The next night Michelle Obama appeared during a dream visit to the Lincoln Memorial and gave me a hug that filled me with happiness and peace. She wiped away my tears and told me we’d all be fine as Abraham Lincoln looked on.


Last night, Brad Pitt flirted with me at Central Perk while Jennifer Aniston served us coffee. We sat on a couch holding hands, discussing everything except Angelina and Donald Trump. I think we are going to build homes together in New Orleans one day soon.


I’m pretty proud of my subconscious during these days of angst. I should send it to a spa as a thank you. I might even tag along.

Peace, and sweet dreams, people.

A Thor in My Side

I’ve developed a new pattern of sleeping. Studly Doright and I get into bed around 8:30 (don’t judge; we’re old) and he watches tv while I read for a few minutes. We kiss good night, I say my prayers, and then bam, I’m sound asleep. 

Around 2 a.m. I wake up with some weird worry on my mind: Did one of the cats just puke beside my side of the bed? Am I going to put my foot in puke if I get up to use the restroom? Do I even need to use the restroom? What if there’s a snake in the toilet? Seriously, these are my 2 a.m. concerns.

The great thing is that once I determine if I need to use the restroom, and the answer is always a resounding “YES!” I return to bed and fall immediately back to sleep where lately I’ve had the most vivid dreams. 

Last night Thor, (played by Chris Hemsworth) was trying to seduce me. He kept showing up in my house, in my shower, and against my feeble protests, in my bed. I tried to tell him I was a married woman and old enough to be his mum, but he promised he just wanted to snuggle. 

“Well, in that case,”I thought, “What’s the harm?”

And we were snuggling so sweetly, so innocently, until we heard Studly Doright open the front door. In one smooth move, Thor rolled off the bed and underneath it before my husband reached the master bedroom door. The sound of Thor rolling off the bed awakened me, and I patted Studly on the arm.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Huh? What?” he mumbled.

“Oh, nothing,” I giggled. “I just thought I heard thunder.” 

After Studly left to play golf early this morning I couldn’t resist the urge to peek under the bed. No Thor. I did find a bedroom slipper I thought I’d left in Clearwater Beach, though.


Peace, and sweet dreams, people.

Written in Meat Loaf

I’ve gradually been reducing my dosage of the anti-depressant, Effexor over the past year and just last week stopped taking it altogether. There have been a few shaky, brain shivery moments, and a couple of emotional outbursts, but knock on wood, I’m finally done with this mind controlling drug.

Vivid and unusually scripted dreams have accompanied every step down in dosage. Several nights ago I dreamt that I was in my hometown of Floydada, Texas, for a reunion of sorts. There were a good many people present with whom I’d attended school, as well as several family members. All of whom are now deceased. 

Maybe that should have creeped me out, but I found their collective presence comforting. They all appeared to be having a good time.

At some point a former physical education teacher approached me, and we visited for some time. I hadn’t particularly cared for her, nor did she like me much back in my junior high school days. Our dream conversation was convivial, though, until she took umbrage at something I said and assigned me the task of writing an essay. 

“No problem,” I smirked, “I write essays in my sleep.”

So I composed a quick essay on the prescribed topic of the Joys of Exercise and submitted it to her. She refused to accept it, saying she’d clearly demanded it be written in meat loaf, and that I wasn’t free to return home until I’d accomplished that feat.

Painstakingly I etched the attention-getting introduction and overarching thesis statement into an unbaked meatloaf, followed by three supporting paragraphs, and a resoundingly strong conclusion. Then the meatloaf was cooked to perfection.

My words disappeared in the cooking process, but Ms. P. E. Teacher was satisfied and I was allowed to leave.

Now, my amateur dream interpretation skills have led me to conclude that my subconscious was dwelling on the temporary nature of all things. Or maybe I was just in Effexor withdrawal. You be the judge.

Peace, people, but wait, there’s more!

There’s meat loaf, and then there’s Meat Loaf.

http://youtu.be/rezC6AvMgvc
 

Dream a Little Dream

I had an amazingly fun dream last night. In it I was in a weird airport terminal awaiting my flight to a European destination to stay with my sister-in-law Lyn who was living there.
 The flight was delayed and I was just hanging out in the cool restroom–there was a waterfall in there. A young mom with two small kids in tow was crying and when I asked if she needed help she told me she’d misplaced her passport. 

Since I had a lot of time before my flight I helped her search everywhere she’d been. We looked and looked and finally found the passport at a kiosk in the airport. It had fallen behind a rack of designer bags. She thanked me profusely and we went our separate ways. 

I looked at my watch and realized I was going to have to rush to make my flight. So I commandeered an airport transport and went tearing through the airport. I got to my gate just as the plane was pulling away. I was pretty bummed. The next flight wouldn’t leave until midnight. 

But then the the young woman and her two kids approached me. “Come with us,” she said.

The next thing I knew I was in a cushy private jet traveling across the Atlantic. The seat laid all the way back, and I slept like a baby. I guess we made it to Europe. All I know is I woke up in the real world well rested.

Peace, people!

Dream Big

I woke myself up singing, Ain’t No Sunshine at five this morning.  I’d been dreaming about planning a farewell party for a co-worker who was moving on to bigger and better things. A few of my office mates had made signs and party favors. Others had baked cookies and cakes. I was in charge of entertainment. As the time for the festivities approached I still had no idea what form that entertainment was going to take.

But then, like a scene from an old Elvis Presley movie where folks would urge this good looking random stranger in the crowd to get up and sing, and he’d do his “aw shucks no” routine all the while rising with guitar in hand to take the stage and make girls swoon, I stood in my dream and belted out Ain’t No Sunshine. 

I even changed up the lyrics a bit to fit the occasion. Instead of the repetition of, “I know, I know, I know…” I sang, “She glows, she glows, she glows….” And in lieu of the vaguely inappropriate line that follows: “I oughta leave the young thing alone, but ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone,” I sang, “She’s a star wherever she goes, but ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone.”

All this in my sleep. Other stuff went on in this epic dream. Most notably I made out with a stranger, who I strongly suspect was Studly Doright in disguise because he kissed exactly like Studly. He’s my sunshine.

For your listening pleasure, the great Bill Withers (following a brief, yet annoying advertisement.)

http://youtu.be/tIdIqbv7SPo

Dream Weaver

Last night I dreamt that I rescued two dogs from an abusive situation. One was a large, light brown mutt who was severely malnourished. The other was a cute little chihuahua who seemed bouncy and healthy.

I took them home and then multiple crises arose: my kids needed help, my job was nuts, there were aliens landing on the front lawn, etc. I forgot about the large dog and found him dead in the backyard. I cried and cried because I knew I was solely responsible for his death.

The little dog was still okay, though. Apparently I’d fed him, and he was still sweet and cute. But having killed the large dog I couldn’t give my heart to the small one. It felt like a huge betrayal, so I gave it away to a family who seemed like they’d cherish it.

I think I know what this dream was trying to tell me. I’m going to change my priorities starting now. 

Thanks for letting me share this. 

Take care, and peace, people.

Star Spangled Dream

One night during my illness–stuffy head, equilibrium-hampering, sinus infection–I dreamt that I was attending either a concert or a movie in an outdoor arena. Just before the event began a giant screen flashed the words:

Please Stand For Our National Anthem

I immediately stood, and began urging those around me to stand, as well. Grudgingly they did. The strains of The Star Spangled Banner began and then abruptly stopped. 

Sorry, technical difficulties!

Flashed across the screen. Then a voice from a loudspeaker boomed, “Will anyone lead in the singing of our national anthem?”

With no hesitation I began, 

Oh, say can you see…

and to my delight people joined in and we all sang the entire song on key. It was a gloriously impossible rendition of our national anthem, especially considering that I knew immediately that I’d begun the song an octave too high. Dreams are wonderfully forgiving.

Once the song ended and we were congratulating one another on our performance a woman in the next section came to me and offered me a role in a traveling Disney performance. I agreed immediately, but then looked over at Studly who was clearly upset by the thought of me leaving, and subsequently declined the offer. 

When I awakened I realized my throat was scratchy. That’s what happens when one sings The Star Spangled Banner an octave too high. 

Peace, people!

  

Dark

would you clap in delight
when the lights go out,
or would you cower in darkness
afraid to take a single step?

would you cry in despair
believing all was lost,
or pass the time in reflection
recalling the blessings of night?

would you dance in place
swaying with abandon
or collapse in a heap of despair
forever changed by the absolute?

 

After I published this post a friend and fellow writer, Janie Christie Heniford, pointed out that the quote attributed to Galileo is instead from a poem (below) by Sara Williams. Thanks Janie! 

Though my soul may set in darkness,
It will rise in perfect light.
For I have loved the stars too fondly
To be fearful of the night.–Sara Williams