Dreamer

You’re nothing but a dreamer

Well, can you put your hands in your head, oh no!1

Actually. Yes. Yes, I can.

But I digress.

I “woke up” (actually, gave up on sleeping any more) this morning thinking about me and my dreams. All my life, I’ve had this knack for interpreting other people’s dreams. No kidding — even at the ripe old age of 10, I remember sitting at our kitchen table explaining my father’s dream to him, and the look on his face as this kid got it pretty much right on target, in terms of what was going on in his emotional life at the time — all of which, of course, was unknown to me, as my parents were of that “greatest generation” who stoically kept their shit to themselves, God bless ‘em.

I myself tend to have three different kinds of dreams. There’s the “Sherrie’s head is full of crap and the brain is sorting it all out” dream. These tend to be wildly imaginative, no plot to speak of, just lots of odd elements and visuals. There’s the “your Higher Self is SPEAKING TO YOU NOW AND YOU WILL BY GOD LISTEN” dream — usually with quite clear imagery and messages and golden lights and so forth.

And then there’s this category …. what to call it? Let’s call it “Those Dreams Of Which We Do Not Speak.”

These? Are weird, people. I’m talking really, truly, Grade A, keep a therapist in clover for YEARS weird.

There was the dream in law school about the guy in white face makeup with black streaks over and under his eyes, dressed in black leather pants and a ripped up long-sleeve black t-shirt, who was a ghost, who wanted me to find a tiny wedding ring (it was in the bathroom of this huge, empty house) and the last scene found us embracing in front of a huge circular rose window. 2

There was the time I dreamed I was falling through a hole in a dirt floor and my boyfriend at the time just barely managed to grab me by my wrist to pull me up to safety. I woke up shaking with fear. He was next to me in bed, his back to me, when suddenly he reached behind him, WITHOUT LOOKING, and grabbed my wrist — just like in the dream. Then he sat up and stared at me, then laid back down. He was asleep the entire time. Didn’t remember a thing in the morning.

Which brings us to last night. Part of me is tempted to say, “well, Self, that’s what you get for reading about the Paris Occupation right before bed, while you’re going through a self-imposed mini-withdrawal from the tramadol” (another long story). But part of me is like … uh, what category does this fit in? ‘Cause it’s too well-plotted to be the “brain taking out the trash” variety. It doesn’t “feel” like the other “PAY ATTENTION” ones.

Which leaves ….  So, here’s what happened:

It seems to take place in current times, except … well. There’s a laptop, and it’s hooked up to the internet, but it’s not supposed to be. I know I’ll get in trouble for it if They see it. There’s a video that’s playing on the laptop, and I have the sound way down low. Princess isn’t here, but she’s coming — we’re in a tall apartment building on the beach.

I look at my watch – the hour has struck 2 PM. The wave will be here in 18 minutes. I have to get Princess, somehow destroy all this stuff from the future (??  !!) and get out before They see us. We can go south, but it’ll take forever to reach the Georgia border. We’re VERY close to the NC border, but there are Gestapo between here and there, swarms of them.3

Somehow, we get out before the tidal wave that I know is coming (because of that laptop and its video from the future) hits us. We’re at this weight station, hiding in the bushes. I tell Princess “If we get separated, go to Wilson, North Carolina.” I make her repeat it several times. I hide her in the trunk of a 40’s looking car. I have changed into this ’40’s looking skirt suit and hat. I pretend to be a collaborator, and strike up a conversation with another woman I recognize from Princess’s old school. I whisper to her we need a ride to the border. She nods.

I get in the car behind the driver, a man in a suit and fedora. It’s one of those open cars, like a convertible. We drive a short ways but stop at a car wash. There They are. Nazis — all around. Shiny boots and long overcoats and those hats covering their eyes. They’re milling around, looking for someone, something. I ask what we’re doing here. The driver says “There’s a meeting.” He gets out. The woman looks at me guiltily, and she gets out, too.

Oh.

Shit.

And I wake up.

I mean – WTF?! What the hell kind of message could that be sending? It’s too tightly-plotted.

I think it has to be one of those “other” kind of dreams. And I think it was designed (by what, or whom, or Whom, I don’t know and don’t care to venture a guess, thanks) to show me what it felt like to be there, so I can tell Miriam’s story in The Coven of the Moons correctly. So I can get it right.

And. Yeah. I’m not about to say “I get it” from one measly dream — but. God almighty. It felt SO real. I woke up trembling, grasping for Princess. Had to make sure she was OK. It’s staying with me, too, that desperate, look-over-your-shoulder-always feeling.

I was hoping writing about it would lessen it somewhat.

If it was an artistic bone someone was throwing me, to make my book better, then all I can say is “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

1 – Now I’m gonna have that stuck in my head all day. Great

2- This was BEFORE I saw The Crow or knew about Brandon Lee dying on the set of that movie. Yeah. Weird.

3-This iswhen I realized that “They” = Nazis. Who had invaded South Carolina, but apparently not NC or Georgia. Say it with me: WEIRD.