Category Archives: dreams

Dude, it’s 4:20 …

… 4:20 a.m., that is. For the last week, I’ve (mostly) been going to bed sometime between 11 and midnight, and (mostly) been rolling over awake to look at the clock between 4:13 and 4:50 a.m., having just woken out of some odd dream. (Today: an old coworker falls into the city reservoir, we rescue him and then go to CVS to have a chocolate egg cream. When we find out that they’re charging $5 for them, we’re horrified, and begin a search to find the ingredients — chocolate syrup and soda water — to make them ourselves. Two days ago: confronted by giant versions of Marvel comic book villains dressed in ill-fitting hero costumes. And so on.)

I fall asleep again fairly quickly, but it’s a pattern I haven’t experienced since the week after my motorcycle accident, years ago.

Tomorrow we’re driving down to NYC for a couple of days to look at some of the neighborhoods enclosing the apartments on Craigslist. It’ll be interesting to see whether I sleep through the night down there. (Note to self: earplugs. Maybe two sets of earplugs, one crammed in on top of the other.)

where the bodies are buried

Long piece on the BBC yesterday about Damien Hirst, the artist most well known for his works involving dead animals in tanks of formaldehyde. Also my last day at work, my last (formal) chance to make sure that the people taking on my various roles have the knowledge necessary to keep the same balls in the air that I did, and some wistful goodbyes. (And a couple of kickass foosball games, too.)

This morning’s dream: an accomplice and I had a secret underground bunker underneath a farm’s barn. The entrance was concealed underneath a pile of hay, and the authorities were snooping around and having campfire singalongs in the barnyard. My accomplice and I were storing the dead bodies (in formaldehyde) in the bunker and hoping that we wouldn’t be found out.

here’s the sort of thing I’m talking about

In my dream, I’ve just spent an hour at a curve in a steep, windy road through a forest. Specifically, it’s the road which led from Bell Center Rd up to the farmhouse in which I grew up. We used to ride toboggans down it during winter; it was that steep.

I’ve spent the hour trying to fit some fiddly pin-and-slot mechanism in the middle of a busted mountain bike, while some well meaning friend, a cop (I think) hovers nearby making comments. I finally get the final U-shaped piece in place, jostle the bike a bit to make sure it’s going to hold, and then climb on.

We’re each on our own bike, and we’re really tear-assing down the hill, which bends and winds through the woods. (There’s some other person with whom we started out and we’re trying to catch up with them, is the reason for the hurry.)

And then the road bends sharply just at a spot where the surface has gone all damp and mossy after a recent rainfall, and my wheels slip on the moss and I go arcing out into the air, a mess of waving arms and ratcheting gears heading for the trees and scrub below. I’m definitely about to die, and all because I was in a hurry.

In midair I manage to remember that I’m dreaming and *blip* myself awake before I land. It’s 6:25, light outside, and I’m in Arlington.

As hungry as I’ve been for this transition, I’ll honestly be just as happy when the bad dreams phase is over.

Psychic Detritus

I was talking with friends recently about quitting my job, and after a small amount of mental math, I realized that I’ve worked at Upromise for a bit over a fifth of my life. 7 years, 1 month. So it’s perhaps not surprising that I’ve been having recurring anxiety dreams and troubles sleeping for the past week. I’ll wake up out of something not a nightmare but unpleasant nonetheless, glance at the clock to find it somewhere between 3 and 4, and then go back to sleep. Kate and I have just barely started packing and sorting, and the worries over having to handle, triage, and prep/donate/store/trash everything we own are daunting, too.

Add to this a non-registered motorcycle which may or may not still be exhibiting it’s stubborn “won’t charge its battery despite showing the correct voltage” problem (anyone want a parts bike, cheap?) and my car whose six-year-old battery chose Friday to suddenly drop to zero function, and it’s been a bad vehicle week, too. Truly, the Buddhists have it right: overattachment to material things does cause pain. Also, mechanic bills.

On Saturday we had lunch with Nick and Adair — Nick I hadn’t seen in years, and his wife Adair we’d never met. Later that evening we were happily invaded by multiple Hankins, which provided excellent distraction and engagement. It’s hard to be self-involved and stressy when you’re dunking a laughing two-year-old in the pond, grilling with many of the Upper Valley crew… and then today’s crazy Stepford-wife weather was unbelievably perfect all afternoon. Clan Hankins took off after lunch to beat the Memorial Day traffic; I read, took a nap, and rehashed a dream I’d had this morning which I can only assume portends good things: sailing on a bright, breezy day in a boat made out of giant rectangular slabs of raw salmon, cut nigiri-style.

Tomorrow, assuming I can get a replacement battery for my car, I’ll go south to Boston. Friday I’ll return, unemployed, footloose, and (hopefully) slightly more fancy-free than I have been of late.

“I’m not going to do this right.”

… For like a week I’d been suffering from such deep seated self-doubt that I hadn’t been able to pick up so much as a bar of soap without thinking, “I’m not going to do this right.”

Chris Onstad’s Achewood character, Teodor Orezscu

Rough day, yesterday. Everyone at work is tense and cranky as the dust from the office move settles and the dust from the Giant This-Changes-Everything technology upgrade later this month starts to rise. In the midst of this I’m blithely sitting at a distance, handing off my job responsibilities, and making the occasional well-intentioned gaffe as I try to lend a hand. The New York Times publishes an article about how incredibly tight the rental market is in New York just as Kate and I are starting to seriously look at Craigslist to see how far north into Inwood our one (hypothetical, not-yet-offered) salary is going to place us. An ill-timed phonecall at the end of the day took the time I had wanted to spend going out for a bike ride. I’m struggling with my radio piece for the Public Radio Talent Quest. The first thing I recorded sounds too scripted, too staid, and I’m flailing around trying to capture something with some juice in time for Monday’s deadline. Chad’s comment to me rang especially loudly: “Wait, this contest is a short cut to a career you’ve been wanting for years, you’ve known about it for months, it’s due Monday, and you’re still writing it?” I went to bed last night feeling blocked, like a horrible procrastinator, and pretty well depressed about it.

Woke up this morning out of an involved dream about Jeff’s upcoming wedding. In my dream, it was taking place in Hawai’i (which it will not, in real life), and I was the Best Man (which in real life, I will be). The hotel where everything was taking place was gorgeous, lots of lava rocks and flowers like lava lamps, foodstuffs straight out of the Hawaiian finale to Top Chef, guests milling around in full tuxedos and tails.

In the midst of this, I found myself running around, coordinating with the hotel cooking staff, making sure everyone had seats and the ceremony ran smoothly, and then, realizing that people were sitting down to dinner, sitting down myself to write my congratulatory toast on a napkin. And then my pen went dry. Writers’ block… in a dream. Eventually I got something written down (which I may even wind up using in real life), but I woke to Kate’s alarm at 5:30 with my jaw sore and a faint tension-hangover.

At more than one time in my life, I’ve done my best writing under a strict time limit; I’ve just opened up, free associated, and sunk the ball in the corner pocket. Here’s hoping.