Stolen Drive (8/31/18 Dream).

As is often the case right before work, on my thirty-minute break, or during my numerous smoke breaks throughout my shift, I’m sitting in my car in a parking space in front of the restaurant. Out of my peripheral vision I see a vehicle pull up in the space beside me, and while I don’t remember if it was on the passenger or driver side, the large, white vehicle is absurdly close to mine — so close that had it happened in real life it would’ve taken out my side view mirror. I’m fuming angry and, once out my car door, I yell at the person, who turns out to be this dirty, flabby, miserable-looking old woman, and she acts as if I’m being absurd and she’s done nothing wrong. For some reason I then go towards the door of the restaurant to tell Steve, one of the typical night managers, and as I walk away the woman is saying something I don’t entirely remember, perhaps didn’t even completely hear at the time, but the gist if it is that she used my full name and mocked me for going to tell Steve — two things I immediately realized she shouldn’t have known. Though I never got his attention, it strikes me a moment later as I’m near the building that I never locked my car doors and may have even left the door open, and a terror seizes me. When I look back, the big white vehicle as well as my own are gone. It then hits me that she had anticipated my reaction and had orchestrated the whole thing in order to steal my car.

An internet search turned up an article by Lauri Quinn Loewenberg entitled, “The 5 Most Common Stress Dreams.” By her measure, at least, dreaming of a stolen car ranks pretty high up there, and this specifically deals with stress involving a lack of “drive” with respect to moving forward on a certain path and your uncertainty regarding what direction to now take. Ever-passive, you’re left spinning your wheels, stalled, going nowhere fast, waiting for motivation, awaiting a road to present itself to you. That this may have to do with a job was one of the first examples she offered, and given that I was parked in front of work in the dream suggests to me that this is probably a valid interpretation. I’ve parked myself at this job and I’ve totally lost my drive for it and I want achingly, desperately to move on, to start a new chapter, but I haven’t the foggiest clue where to go.

The rest of the dream is a bit more difficult to interpret. The woman parked too close, invading my personal space. I do hate it when people park too close and I’m afraid of them hitting my car when they open their door or I have to open my door ever so carefully and squeeze myself out in fear of hitting their car with my door. I like my space. This is also why I go into my car to smoke or during break: I want to be alone, to write or read or just smoke and sip my coffee, enjoy the silence and isolation, let my mind wander and roam free. People talk while I’m reading or writing and I lose my place, become distracted, feel irritated immediately: just wait until I’m done to bother me, damn it, this is my mini-vacation. I’m releasing pressure. Breathing. Escaping the fake fucking bullshit world I’m forced to be a part of.

The dream seems to suggest that my space was invaded and I was robbed of my mobility by whatever was represented by the vile dream-woman. She was reminiscent of this customer at work that has been coming in lately, her personality, insofar as it has been expressed, as disgusting as her appearance. She’s the kind of person that seems to take joy in complaining, the kind of customer that takes advantage of that “the customer is always right” bullshit. She wants us to do all we can to please her, or else have us treat her poorly so she’s justified in having a hissy fit.

Maybe she represents the customers in general.


Cats & Dogs (8/10/18 Dream).

I’m at my parents house, and I’m supposed to be watching two tan-colored dogs, identical in appearance. Though I’m uncertain who they belonged to, I’m fairly certain that they didn’t belong to me. At some point I noticed that I hadn’t seen them around in some time, though initially I dismissed it as me being paranoid and put it out of my mind. Eventually, though, I felt justified in my worry and began asking people if they had seen either of them, and when it became clear that no one had, I began my search in earnest. As I began looking around inside the house, I saw my parents’ collie laying on his side below the kitchen table and immediately suspected he was dead, but chose to ignore it, figuring I was merely being paranoid.

I looked everywhere for the missing dogs. Each time I even thought of my own little, black cat (which I do not, in actuality, own), it would show up nearby, as if summoned, but I could not find the twin dogs anywhere. Ultimately I went outside to look, and eventually went into a little fenced in area with a large wooden box-like structure with a door, an area that turned out to house all these cats. They all seemed to really like me, especially one fluffy one in particular, which looked at me curiously. I kept looking. In the yard, by the driveway, I see my parent’s dog again, and someone’s lifting him. He’s clearly dead and stiff as a board. When I finally went back into the house, my youngest sister comes back inside as well. Her face is red and, with tears in her eyes, she tells me, sobbing, that the dogs are barking — at least, that’s what I think she says. I take her to mean not the two dogs I had been looking for, but rather the neighbor’s dogs, specifically the neighbors who used to have the vicious rottweiler I had affectionately named Cujo.

After that, I finally woke up and got out of bed.

Though I’m not entirely certain at what points in the dream that it happened, I actually awoke once or twice in the midst of it and decided to go back to sleep and enter back into the dream because I wanted to find those two dogs before I got out of bed. I never did, but I find the fact that I was capable of entering back into the dream damned intriguing in retrospect. I think I’ve been able to do that in the past on relatively rare occasions, but it has been some time. Indeed, it has been a long time since I’ve had any degree of dream recall at all.

In the past, I’ve had recurring dreams in which I suddenly recalled that I owned pets that I had forgotten about and had failed to provide food and water for, often finding them dead or near death. Though this dream doesn’t exactly fit that pattern, I suspect that it references and reflects the same underlying issues.

In general, animals may symbolize instinctive drives and emotions. Humans are animals, after all, it is only that we are self-domesticated, so other animals in dreams may be associated with the biological drives we dissociate ourselves from, the aspects of our identity that we tend to repress — in essence, the Jungian Shadow. My recurring dreams of having amnesia regarding owning pets and not having given them food or water suggests a failure of responsibility towards aspects of myself dependent on me for health and survival, and so perhaps my instincts themselves. This more recent dream, however, features two dogs that were temporarily dependent upon me and for whom I was responsible. In losing them, I not only let the animals down but whoever had entrusted me to care for them.

In addition, there was again a dog that belonged to someone else, namely my parents, and he was dead. To call this dog a friendly dog is to make a molehill out of Olympus Mons, as he is the biggest, most adorable attention whore I’ve ever encountered. He constantly wants to be petted, always tries to step up on your lap or stick his nose in his face and always follows you around, often waking you up out of sleep with a cold nose or sloppy lick to the face. Though he can get irritating, I adore the dog, as I do with respect to most animals, and spend a lot of time when I visit my parents feeding him the attention he craves.

So lost dogs, dead dogs: the dogs got lost due to my lack of attention, and the dog that craves attention more than anything has died. Like the recurring dreams of animals, it again suggests not investing attention and properly nurturing someone or something, perhaps buried and instinctive drives. And dogs I strongly associate as an animal that is loyal but incredibly dependent on the owner. My characterization of cats is much different.

Cats are typically independent creatures. Rather than followers, they are, at best, partners with their own, strong sense of self. A little internet searching regarding dream interpretations reveals that they are also seen to represent the Jungian Anima, or the feminine aspect of the male psyche that he projects onto the women in his life, and also his intuition. Of potential relevance is the fact that twice in the dream I dismissed my intuition as paranoia only to later discover that I had, in fact, been right: first, assuming the two dogs had run off; second, assuming my parent’s dog was dead. Typically, dogs are considered to be more obedient; cats, more independent, but the circumstances in the dream seem to imply the reverse. I couldn’t find the two dogs, but every time I so much as wondered where my cat was it seemed to suddenly just be there.

Blacks cats in particular are additionally associated with the unknown, the mysterious, and with the occult and magick. To some they also represent bad luck, but that’s never been an association of mine, at least consciously. Everything else associated with cats offered above, however, also resonates remarkably well with the qualities I find alluring about women I’ve been close to in my life.

On Memory Issues With Strange Experiences.

The most unusual experiences of my life were ones that occurred when I was stone cold sober, though they certainly share certain qualities with my psychedelic experiences. In each category, the most frustrating obstacles deal with memory and translation.

Memory is problematic enough by nature and it doesn’t help matters that it is truly all we ever know of experience. Sorry, my dear Buddhists, but we know of no Here and Now. We are always living in the past. There is a time delay between when our bodies receive stimuli and when we experience it, a fact that I think Sam Harris has exemplified pretty well.

As he has explained, when I extend my arm to touch something the signals clearly have a longer journey to the brain than, say, when something brushes my nose — yet if I take my own finger and boop my own nose, I seem to experience both my finger touching my nose and my nose being touched by my finger in tandem. No apparent delay. How? Well, my brain waits until it has all relevant data before providing me with my perceptual experience.

Our immediate perceptual experience, then, is sensory memory, and so we are always living in the past.

On top of that there is the possibility that every time we remember something we are in actuality recalling our former memory of it. In other words, with every subsequent occasion in which we recall something it decreases in accuracy. This may not be the only way in which we can remember, of course — there may be ways in which that root, sensory memory can be directly accessed and it is only that this memory-of-a-memory chain is simply more economical and becomes a sort of default as a consequence — but without knowing how to switch gears or at least differentiate between them, we’re still left with the problem. We’re still left to rely on our increasingly inaccurate memories and often trust them too blindly.

In some instances, however, we aren’t even granted what ultimately constitutes false memories but are instead left with hazy recollections or, worse, no memory at all, save for perhaps remembering that there was something profound that has been forgotten. The easiest example is transitioning from the state of dreaming to awakening — or the similar experience of transitioning from being high on a psychedelic to being sober.

Why are carrying over those memories so damned difficult, however? Part of the issue, I suppose, is that in these cases we have to rely on memory greatly, even entirely, because leaving the state of dreams or the psychedelic-saturated sensory landscape takes away the environment (or the state-dependent perceptions of our environment) that would otherwise assist us in triggering any associated memories.

It may also be a translation problem, which is to say it may not only be that the memories themselves are state-specific but that the manner in which we were feeling, thinking and perceiving while dreaming or while under the influence of a psychedelic may be so distinct from our typical, awakened, sober mode of consciousness that they are lost in translation.

On the shroom trip some things seemed so clear, so self-evident in that state, but later seemed frustratingly out of reach. I get the sense sometimes that these experiences are allergic to language — much as is the case in my unusual sober experiences. It even seems at times that the experience becomes even more confusing as a result of my attempts to understand it.

Z Deep.

from the weather
in your artificial cave,
controlled environment.

Count your lucky stars,
somewhere up
there, obscured from view,
brought to you
by the damned light pollution.

Wrap yourself in a cocoon
of warmth
inside a box within a box,
try and fall
comfortably within, deeper
than the skin,
bodies like Russian dolls
in Chinese boxes,

into reflections
nesting reflections,
cleansed in the plunge
into this dark, unconscious sea.

Into the WILD.

While laying supine on my bed, I listened to the Astral Dreams app on my iPhone as I focused my attention on my breath. White noise layered with tones and what I presume to be subliminal suggestions rushed into my ears through my ear buds. My intent here was to deliberately achieve the state I often find myself in naturally during meditation, hypnosis, or just on the bridge of sleep: a state of sleep paralysis in which hypnagogic imagery begins manifesting in my mind. It turns out that this is the first part of what is known as the Wake-Induced Lucid Dreaming (WILD) technique; all I need to do is try and “step into” the imagery and I can enter into a lucid dream without any breach in the continuity of consciousness.

Once the paralysis began, I felt one of my fingers move involuntarily to touch another — though neither were my actual, physical fingers. I wish there was something less hokey to call it, but calling it an aura or subtle body in and around my physical form is the only language presently available to me. It’s like a full-body form of the phantom limb effect, I guess, though in this case I feel it despite having a body complete with all the typical limbs. And I always feel it — it’s just that states like this make me more sensitive to the sensations.

As the hypnagogic imagery began popping up before my minds eye in a rapid slideshow, I maintained a witnessing perspective, and once the imagery calmed down a bit I began slowly attempting to “step into” the imagery, at which point the images began to gain a sense of dimension. As before, as always, the images appeared as if I were gazing at them through an amber-brown tinted window. Entering into the images was much like entering the mouth of a cave as the closer I got the more the scene seemed to be above and around me until the mouth was finally at my back and I felt as if I was actually inside the image.

I maintained awareness as I entered into an image, a scene in which I was staring at the treetops and the sky, and the scene bursts with color and life. A convincingly real, ideal summer day. I got so excited that it ended as quickly as it began. It was like swiftly stepping out of the mouth of the cave backwards and back behind the amber-brown tinted window of the mind.

Damn it. I was so close.

The Plague of Devia Mara.


Effectively divorced from my skin and all sensory stimuli, I felt myself descend as if into the proverbial rabbit hole, leading me towards what either constituted a lucid dream or another plane of existence. The debate is still raging. In either case, I was awake and knew this was not mundane reality I was literally falling into, and so I feared the entity that had attacked me so often when this sort of thing happened might lunge at me, so in response I resorted to a technique I had picked up in my Occult readings and refashioned to my own satisfaction. Chanting the made-up word only I know three times, I summoned my protective shield. Evidently, the conditioning I had subjected myself during my ordinary, waking life paid off, as it occurred without effort in precisely the way I always imagined it to function. Starting in my chest area, a white, glowing ball of energy swiftly grew to encompass my entire form, cocooning me in a protective bubble of energy.

To my relief and amazement, the vicious entity without certain form never showed. Though I could be mistaken, I do believe that this was the first time that I had found myself awake within an otherworldly space and not ultimately been subjected to his relentless violence. As I continued to fall down this nonphysical well I saw floating Gray alien heads strewn all about as if I was underwater, which did not seem to be the case, until I ultimately came to rest in an alternate version of my bedroom. There, my lucidity depleted significantly.

What followed, at least in the notes that, judging from my handwriting, occurred immediately afterward, constituted various non-lucid but certainly vivid dreams. I cannot be certain of their chronology, the degrees to which I succeeded in remembering them or whether they were separate dreams or part of a single, enduring narrative, but they were of an uncommon clarity and an eerie, dark overcast. Two scenes have direct relevance here.

Inside what I know to be a long building with a large parking lot that in retrospect I surmised must have been a bar or restaurant, I am sitting at the bar, a friend to my left and a girl sitting to my right. She dragged off a cigarette held between long, frog-like lips positioned beneath buggy eyes, and I got the overwhelming feeling that she was depressed. For some reason, I also felt that she looked like a Jennifer.

In the next relevant scene, I am introduced to what I explained in my notes as a sex-crazed girl in a dark room. I saw her as if from below, sitting on her sofa chair as if it were a throne. Leaning back, sprawled on the chair quite comfortably, she had her right leg bent at the knee and leisurely aiming to my right, with that foot resting on the chair, the other leg casually hanging off the edge. She was clad in a black shirt and pants, her shoulder-length black hair the only discernible feature when I focus on her head, which is entirely draped in darkness.

Though I would much prefer to think that I walked, given the position from which I initially viewed her I would have to say that I was on my hands and knees and crawled toward her, eventually atop her, though her position did not significantly change as I did so. Looking down, I spied her belly, as concave as my own at the time, and her comparatively loose black jeans, void of any belt. So inverted was her tummy that I could not only discern that she wasn’t wearing any underwear but clearly see her finely-shaven vagina. I then asked her a question, I think whether or not she would be my girlfriend.

“No,” she replied. “No Sex.”

In the dream notes, I mentioned that she for some reason looked as if her name would be Devia, though I have never, up to the time of this writing, known any girl by that name.


Sometime after having this dream, when I again decided to try my hand at fiction, I wrote a short story inspired by the dream, which I entitled The Hole in the Universe. It dealt with a group of guys who hung out at a bar based partially on the one in my dream, which was run by the girl I had called Jennifer. Their typical, end-of-the-workday routine was interrupted one evening when a biker entered the doors, offering cautionary tales to the group regarding a girl he was attempting to hunt down called Devia Mara. He claimed that though he had never met her himself she had taken home some of the guys at the biker bar down the street and brainwashed them, drained them of all will, and those that returned to the bar after nights with her came back changed, not at all themselves. After ascertaining they had not seen or heard of such a woman before, he told them to be careful and departed.

As the story progressed, his dire warnings proved to have merit, as she had evidently moved her territory from his biker bar to their own and started plucking them away one by one — though in this case, none of his friends ever returned to the bar or were seen again. The last member of the group and the one qualifying as the protagonist of the story feared she was seducing and then killing them and, despite the fact that he had still never laid eyes on her, soon became obsessed with hunting her down himself.

Ultimately he encountered her on the stairs at a bar, where she bit his lip and he passed out, only to find himself bound in duct tape to the passenger seat of a car upon awakening, with her in the driver seat. They engaged in a rather aggressive conversation, during which she insisted she had not killed his friends but only helped them to accept their true, individual natures and open up to life, leaving their group and the bar behind them in the wake. Though she eventually releases him and they walk together along a bridge, he stubbornly refuses to trust in and be swayed by her as they allegedly had.

Up to this point I feel my story was okay — not great by any measure, but all right — though in retrospect I certainly feel as though there was far more I could’ve done with it. I am, on the other hand, entirely unsatisfied with the ending, where she revealed herself to be something akin to a psychic vampire or parasite of the soul and left him alone on the bridge, paralyzed, slowly disintegrating into dust, falling into the water below. It seemed dreadfully inconsistent not only with respect to the promise I felt she had in the context of the dream that inspired the story but in the story previous to that point. For her to reveal herself as some simple personification of evil after teasing true depth and complex motives through their conversation seemed cheap, and the ending rather predictable, at least in essence.

To make matters worse, there are suggestions that this was my intent from the very moment I began writing the story, though I can neither recall any specific intentions nor have I managed to uncover any suggestive notes.

For instance, I do know that there was a good reason I chose the last name Mara for her. By the point I had written the story I am sure I knew that a mare or mara was said to be an evil spirit essentially synonymous with mythical creatures such as the succubus, Incubus and the old hag in that they were said to straddle the chests of people as they slept and suffocate them, giving rise to bad dreams or “night-mares.” It should come as no surprise that they are currently thought to be hallucinations caused by sleep paralysis. I knew all this as I had one such experience myself in March of 1995 and had subsequently engaged in obsessive research — and in an era that was BG (Before Google), no less. The sense I got from my research was that such entities were essentially psychic parasites, which is clearly reflected in the ending of the story.

Though I am fairly certain that I had no knowledge of it at the time, I have also discovered that Mara was the name of the demon that tempted Siddhārtha Gautama on his path towards enlightenment, which is to say to the trajectory that terminated upon him earning the title of Buddha. Mara is therefore considered in the eyes of at least some present-day Buddhist sects to be the personification of all that seeks to keep one bound to the wheel of death and rebirth.

In essence, my intention seemed to ultimately present her as a seductive entity that enslaved others and drained them of their power.


Though her face remained concealed within the dream, once I introduced her in the realm of my writing I gave her definite features. I was rather taken aback when I read it again, as it seems to describe Hypnotic Haylee, who I only stumbled upon far later, rather accurately:

“Her green eyes dug into me like a knife,” I wrote. “Her forehead was tilted further outward than her chin, and locks of her black hair fell across her face, reminding me so much of a predator fixating on her prey.”

While I never delved into how it was Devia changed those who became entangled in her web, hypnosis would fit nicely, and had I known enough about it at the time I feel certain I would have included it in the story as the means by which she “brainwashed” the guys at the biker bar. In any case, I’ve come to suspect that this is why I ultimately gravitated towards Haylee so many years later. She fit the profile of Devia in the dream to a startling degree and at least physically in the story that it inspired, suggesting that I have been psychologically projecting Devia onto her.

Of Spinning Wheels and Skipping Records.

Though it has been plain to me and has, in fact, plagued me for a good, long while, I only recently came to learn there have been various terms for it in psychology: fate neurosis, destiny neurosis, and most recently, it seems, repetition compulsion. In essence, this is an individual’s unconscious impulse to repeat their history over and over again, in many cases while remaining exceptionally blind to the fact.

It appears to me as if there are at least three steps to repetition compulsion. The origin of the skipping record is typically perceived as a “seed story” or circumstance one faced while in childhood and as a consequence tends to deal with the relationship one had with one’s caretakers. One may have been neglected or abandoned, physically or sexually abused, or perhaps suffered under the reign of an authoritative parent. Another dawning situation, as it is with one dear friend of mine, may be a home life that breeds parentification — a process in which the child is forced to take on the role of the parent due to the actual parent’s general incompetence when it comes to parenting. There are potentially endless scenarios for such a seed story.

Whatever the circumstances, there comes a time when the child is no longer technically a child and so she wastes no time getting the bloody fuck out of dodge. Consciously determined, she then attempts to make her own life, but the subliminal aspects of her being, addicted to that familiar story, immediately get the shakes and they quickly intervene. Though she isn’t aware of it, she then finds herself unconsciously gravitating towards people and finding herself in circumstances that have an uncanny affinity with the people and circumstances she had just managed to escape. Like a shadow, the weight of her history appears fundamentally inescapable: the past, it seems, is forever present.

After successfully anchoring herself in the familiar, the phenomenon of transference takes hold, prompting her to exhibit conditioned reactions in her new context and inevitably, through projective identification, generates the desired reactions from the other person or people in question. In this way, the feedback loop creates and maintains the familiar circumstance.

Repetition compulsion can also come in one of two forms, the most direct being what we could call the Remake. If we can conceive of the original story as a sort of movie, every subsequent regurgitation would constitute a remake. I say this because the distinguishing feature of a remake is that it honors the source material, plagiarizing where it can get away with it and striving to pay homage where it must yield to the call for modernization.

The easiest personal example I can offer is Sandra, who was a longtime friend before I finally had to sever the close tie. Part of the reason was her overall lack of empathy and compassion, particularly with me, despite the fact that I exercised such empathy and compassion with her. The second reason, related and more to my point here, is that she was unable to see the Groundhog Day nature of circumstances, particularly when it came to men. She used to come into my room in the house I shared with her and her brother, lay on my bed and spill her soul to me, raw and unfiltered. This in and of itself is not unusual, as even total strangers tend to do this with me. I don’t mind. But over the course of countless failed relationships, I was hearing damn near the same exact story. No matter what part of the story she happened to be in at the timeI could tell her not only how she had gotten there but where it was going.

It should have been for her like it was expressed in that Nine Inch Nails song, “Everyday Is Exactly the Same”:

“I believe I can see the future
because I repeat the same routine.”

But she never saw it. I have often critiqued her for being unable to see beyond her own head to understand others; the truth of the matter was that she seemed utterly incapable of seeing so much as herself. Her deafness towards her own skipping record life soundtrack was heartbreaking and endlessly frustrating.

By no means is this phenomenon limited to her, of course. I certainly see it in my own life — but for me, that was and remains the difference: I see it. If nothing else, strive to gain some degree of self-awareness, for fuck’s sake.

Another way in which repetition compulsion can play out is in the form of Role Reversal. Whereas in the remake the person always plays the ego, the role they played in the seed story, here the person plays the role of their shadow, seeking out or forcing another into their previous position.

In many cases this can lead down a rather dark path: while you seek out the same general circumstances inherent in your core story, you now abandon your dawning role as the victim and put on the costume and mask of the victimizer. The song “Prison Sex” off of Tool’s album, Undertow, encapsulates the essential nature of this, perfectly summarizing the underlying aim with the line: “Do unto others what has been done to you.”

There may be various underlying motivations for repetition compulsion. Seeking out the familiar, no matter how painful, provides a greater sense of psychological security than the health and safety that may be possible, even probable, given a different pattern, simply because familiarity offers predictability, and therefore the illusion of control — and that’s certainly part of it. Also, as has been said in the case of recurring dreams and flashbacks, it may be an attempt on behalf of the unconscious to discharge emotions or desensitize one to the stimulus through relentless redundancy. Conversely, it may be an unconscious attempt to master the circumstance, to find a solution, to achieve resolution.

This sounds an awful lot like the Hindu take on reincarnation, which is to say we keep repeating the same damned cycle, our story, until we ultimately extinguish our desires. Buddhism offers a different take on the matter: one can take charge and work towards escaping the cycle now, within this lifetime, within this most recent adaptation of our recurring story. It involves transcending the ego and, as a consequence, the circumstances it compulsively perpetuates through mindfulness — through witnessing rather than engaging with the mind.

There may be additional measures one could take to escape the chains of their existential echoes, however: creative outlets. Just as our seed story can manifest in our objective circumstances it can also manifest in our music, play, writing, art, as well as in dreams and hallucinations, making us more mindful through the reflection such creativity offers. Carl Jung’s Active Imagination technique could potentially accelerate the process, too.

Dreams of the Lost.

From what I have been able to recall from my dreams, the theme on the 15th and 16th involved pet animals, much has been the case with my dreams over the course of the last few months. Rather than forgetting I own them and forgetting to feed and water them, however, they were escaping and I was unable to track them down. More recently, the theme of “lost and not found” has carried on, though the manifestations have extended beyond animals.


I had two pets in a glass tank in what appears and feels like my parents living room. One of the animals died, and though I cannot recall what the first animal was the second was a chameleon, and I soon found that it had managed to escape its tank. As I hunted around the house for it, I at first thought I had squished it — I could even see its legs in the pile of stuff I had accidentally, evidently squished it in — but found that this was not the case. It was still alive and roaming free, hiding from me. 

I kept losing it in ways that seemed impossible. I remember catching it at one point and looking in the small tank where I had temporarily put it in shortly thereafter only to find that it was gone. Poof. He was a goddamn Houdini with cold blood. 

I was getting frustrated. And the dream ended without me ever having completed my mission of finding the damned thing.

The next time I slept (which is to say on the same day/evening), I had more dreams. A group and I had been in the house of someone else and the feeling I got is that our presence there was not in the least bit called for, not the least bit legal. They left, and only I remained — in one of the bedrooms at the end of the hall — when I heard the door open and heard (or in any case ascertained) that two people had entered the house.

Grabbing a stuffed dog nearby, I peek around the door frame of the room to see into the hallway, using the plush puppy to mimic the same behavior. It was done in a very childlike way, and I did it so as to not alarm them when they undoubtedly saw me. Evidently, it worked. It was a guy and a girl who came in, though I never saw the girl and didn’t recognize the guy he saw me peering around the corner, hardly glancing at the plush dog, looked me in the eyes and with a casual and even warm sense of recognition said to me, “Hey, Rick.” 

I had a vague sense of having seen the guy’s face before, but I’d be damned if I knew where — and the guy acts as if my presence is no surprise, no big deal. The only problem is that name he called me by. I am not Rick.

In another dream, I find that someone has a pair of leg braces like the ones I used to wear when I was young, and I was curious as to why they had them. Had they also had Perthes Disease? 

In yet another dream, I bump into two shift managers at work, though one was fired a few months back. I give one of them a belated birthday present for her daughter that I had been carrying around. She took it without saying anything, and I feared it meant nothing to her for she saw me as doing it out of guilt.


I was thinking about a pet rabbit of mine that had evidently escaped some time ago and hoped to find in the context of the dream as we were looking for something else.


I drive this small toy tank, presumably by remote control, so that it goes right under my bed. When it never comes back out the other side as it should have, I look under the bed — look everywhere multiple times — yet never find it. In another scene, I apparently drive the same toy tank into a pond, where it continues to plow along under water, but when I await its arrival on the side, it never comes. Again I embark on a fruitless search. 
It had been some time in the dream before I realized I wasn’t wearing my hat. My immediate fear, my instant sense of embarrassment arose from the realization that my bald spot had been exposed for a such great length of time — and all without my knowledge. I ran back to where I thought I had lost it. 
In general, dreams about getting lost, having lost something and searching for it are regarded as an expression of your sense of alienation or inadequacy. Losing a pet chameleon? Perhaps losing the ability to blend in to your surroundings. Losing a pet rabbit? I don’t know — perhaps losing softness, a sense of idealism. The toy tank having gone MIA not once, but twice in the same night in two different scenes? I’m clueless. Losing a hat? Maybe it suggests fears of losing your social role, social masque or persona — or having anxiety about what others might think regarding your hair loss…

Explosions in the Sky (1/9/16 Dream).

It was approaching evening and there was a crowd of people around me when it happened. There was a big explosion at the horizon which shot these tendrils of light high into the sky. Each of these tendrils then descended, arching down for a short distance before each of them exploded as well, shooting their own spidery tendrils in every direction, and this chain reaction carried on for a short time.

Frightening, awe-inspiring in its beauty, people seemed shocked and confused but despite the lack of any explanation seemed to quickly forget about it. In the meantime, my concern remained steady and my curiosity, my need to get to the bottom of it, continued to gnaw at me.

My frustration with the apathy of those around me seemed to grow throughout the dream. There was a scene in which I had a rather childish fight with the eldest of my two younger sisters where I experienced that blinding, all-consuming rage I often had as a kid.

At some point I burst open a door to a nearby house and tried to ask the people inside if they had seen what happened in the sky, if they knew what had caused it. There were four people, I think: two pairs sleeping with one another, curled around one another with their pillows and blankets on the floor.

Though I knew what I wanted to say in my head with precision, I was unable to get so much as a word out. It felt as though I were pushing to say it but at best I could make only muffled, garbled sounds. I began losing motor control in my body, too, and I thought to myself that this had to be another anxiety attack. After some fruitless effort, after I was sure that they were confused and frightened and thought me to be some weirdo, I managed to escape back out the door.

UFOs and Possessed Cars (1/7/16 Dream).

Within the dream I began to remember one night where UFOs displayed themselves above my parent’s property — a memory pulled from one the many vivid dreams I have had regarding that particular scenario, and this particular dream involved an awe-inspiring spectacle in the sky. I was going to ask someone, perhaps my brother in law, if he remembered it, but I never did.

Sitting in car on break at work, reading or writing when I hear a grumble and feel a faint vibration. I’m confused to find that my car has somehow just started up. After a moment I get out and look up, wondering if a UFO might be overhead. I am walking towards the rear of the car and look behind me and see the passenger side door open and close as if someone invisible had just gotten in or followed me out. The car tries to back up, but I block it and it doesn’t elect to run me over.

Eventually my car seems to have gone back to normal. Once back inside, I walk behind counter and down the pathway between the pie oven and the kitchen, telling Elizabeth and one other person about it in passing. It’s too weird for them to believe it, I feel, but it happened and I’m tired of always being afraid to talk about these weird things in my life.