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I've been away for awhile and now am returning to my job (as a disability claims case examiner or manager in a bright supermarket setting). The impression is that I have been ill but am now mostly recovered and needing to get back into the work world fray. I find that the work methods have dramatically changed. The hardest work is stacked in pending case categories in one supermarket aile (aisle). A claims examiner is to go to an aisle and take one of the oldest pending cases to work on next. The whole operation is competitive, so it behooves one to take at least some of the hardest cases, not just always do the easiest ones.
But I am really out of it, unfamiliar with the latest rules and case management guidance. I am also feeling mentally confused, overwhelmed, and disoriented. And I am very tired, with low energy. I want to quickly stop in the snacks aisle and grab and eat a couple handfuls of junk food, to hopefully begin to feel more "with it."
An old colleague of mine, Liz, who has stayed with disability case management through all the ups and downs since she started, about 1984, realizes I am going to have a hard time getting into the work groove again and offers to help if I need tips or someone to consult about the cases. Most everything is computerized now. On a computer screen, she shows me one case that looks ideal for me to sink my teeth into. It is hard but not terribly so.
However, when I go to the aisle where it should be, I cannot find it. Someone else must have gotten it, or it had been filed wrong. There are both aisles of cases as well as ones of regular supermarket food items. The aisles at the front are for checkout, as usual.
Arrayed frequently for easy viewing are little digital readout monitors showing quick, fast changing messages in shorthand code, for key lessons or guidance on the current case management rules or best practices. These look like computer passwords, each a series of letters and numbers that are displayed for but a few seconds, then are quickly replaced by each of up to ten total such messages. I do not know the meanings of any of them.
I am feeling anxious, frustrated, and confused. I doubt I shall be able to adjust to the work again.
[Liz is smart, a devoted mom and now grandma, creative, personable, gay, well organized, an extrovert, gets along well with most everyone, a Liberal Democratic, and has proved able to adjust well to the numerous political and bureaucratic winds of change that have swept through disability case management in the past 2-3 decades.]
I have bought a pair of long, sharp scissors of high quality and have put them away in a drawer. A 3-4 year old child somehow has gotten hold of them and is playing with them. No harm has yet come of it, but Fran takes them away from him, gives them to me, and suggests I had better put them in a safer place.
7/4/08 - Title: "Tunnel of Hate"
I'm a worm fighter in a blood red throat-like tunnel of flesh. We are trying to stop large worm creatures. They are large by the standards of most earthworms, but small compared with a human, whom they endeavor to eat from the inside out, one bloody strip of torn-loose flesh at a time. They have evolved this way, though they used to be human themselves. They are most efficient, vicious killers and then consumers of human flesh. Several together can strip a person from inside in minutes, almost in seconds. There is little that can stop them. Even though adapted and trained, I am no match for them, go (though) I can slow their progress and sometimes allow a human to get through this region with somewhat less than lethal wounds.
There is a sequence of bloody frenzied feeding vs. fighting, in which I kill or at least maim several worm creatures, but several also strip off much of the flesh of this current human's throat tunnel.
One of my commanders, a veteran of numerous prior campaigns, remembers that there was one terrific fighter in the opposition, a worm creature of such talent and superb fighting and eating tactics that he was known as "The General." It turns out he was my brother, Allen. He and several of our other brothers, such as my brother Ralph, practiced and participated in war games against one another each summer. These wild Lord Of The Flies type summer sessions one day led to the real thing. Allen has somehow survived to this day, though he is now retired from his notoriously outstanding wormy specialty: killing frenzies.
7/5/08 - Title: "Not to Be Taken Lightly - A Crack in the Wall"
Mom and Fran are talking. Fran mentions the threat from my brother, Horace, who keeps a lot of guns and to her seems trigger-happy. She suggests people stay away from him, for who knows when he will think these are the final days (or the prophesied end time)? Then he would start shooting those he regards as not as worthy as he, his wife, and their kids to go to Heaven, thus hastening these less elect into their hellish just desserts.
Mom sort of laughingly dismisses Fran's comments about Horace and says: "I don't have THAT worry, but there are some serious issues, for instance: a crack in the wall."
7/6/08 - Title: "Unnatural Relations" or "Wicker Weirdness"
I'm talking at our mutual workplace with the wife of another worker. We are in an old center or building. I had been trying to explain I just wanted to be her friend and to see her frequently in this way. Though evidently with some unspoken reservations, she agreed with this type relationship, and even with meeting me regularly for friendly one-on-one chats at lunch time. I sensed some awkwardness in her manner. We agreed to meet next for lunch at 1:00 the same day, then went our separate ways. Only after I had driven away from our meeting, did I realize it was already almost 1:00. I drove back and was arranging chairs for our first regular lunch meeting. Then I noticed, first, that her husband was sitting nearby, and might wonder why she and I were having a one-on-one get-together instead of her being with him, and, second, that she was already there too, having a spontaneous friendly chat there with a woman in another part of the lunch area. In both cases, it seemed, if she were to now suddenly come over and join me for an exclusive conversation, where at a small table I had arranged us a couple chairs, it would be awkward and raise questions. The chairs I had gotten together were old fashioned (early 20th Century, I think) straw, wicker, or cane wheelchairs. I was trying to put another, regular chair into one of the wicker wheelchairs, as one might fit a booster chair onto another one. Then I talk with the woman after she sees me waiting there. She looks impatient and annoyed, as though she really did not after all want to join me, as we had earlier agreed (though I may have sort of pressured her into it), for the first (or any?) of our regular lunch meetings.
7/8/08 - Title: "Close Encounters with Swamp Thangs"
I am with my nephew, Charley (who is younger than in reality, probably about eight) and a still younger nephew (either Jim or Keith, probably the latter, when about 5-6). I am showing the others in a small swampy area that we must be careful before playing or even walking in there because there might be poisonous snakes. Charley sees a possible snake I had not noticed. It is mostly under the clear water's surface but, sure enough, by using a long stick, I am able to tease it out into the open. However, it turns out not to be a poisonous one. Much closer is a far larger one, 5-6 feet long and as big around as a man's arm. It is venomous. We back off to a safe distance and hurl some big sticks or pieces of old lumber at it to try to kill it, but they miss or do not connect directly. I decide we better do something else about it. To my surprise and alarm, Charley then does (goes) right into the water, grabs the big snake by its tail, then picks its whole body up. I am sure he will be struck.
Later, however, he is just fine, but he had put the snake back. I am annoyed with him, because, thanks to his messing with it, the big snake has gone into deep water where it can no longer be seen and dealt with. I decide it is not safe now for us to play in the swamp.
Title: "Not Too Late"
I am visiting in a large posh professional building, waiting on or looking for someone.
Then I am riding in a large truck with a couple of men who work at the building. One is driving from just left of the cab (which encloses just the front passenger seats) and not paying attention to a conversation inside the cab between me and the other one.
That man laments that he never tried to get a Ph.D. He now feels his career as a lawyer is not as rewarding as he would wish.
I point out that many people who have Ph.D.s are also not leading such rewarding lives. On the other hand, many without Ph.D.s are more meaningfully engaged, both in their work and through volunteer activities.
Though he does not answer my encouragement, he gives the impression he remains skeptical and dissatisfied, still feeling it is too late for him due to bad early choices.
7/9/08 - Title: "But Thou Shalt Not Eat of That Tree"
I am younger, maybe in my 30s, and have been away from my work group. Some are really glad to see me and I them. We grin joyfully and have huge crushing long bear hugs.
One man I hug this way is a middle-aged (40s?) English or Scottish fellow, muscular and strong, known for acting out with decisive spontaneity, yet with typically good results from such impulsive behavior. Earlier he knew my mom well. She has sung his praises to me.
Several of my coworkers offer me membership in their garden fresh salad club, a new tradition since I was here before. I agree. Each day, one of the club members makes a big tossed salad full of healthful veggie ingredients for the salad club as a whole. Then for lunch they share the salad and visit, chatting and eating together in a kind of roundtable party.
My first day back, it falls to me to make the salad. But I am surprised and dismayed to see that the main ingredient is to be a beautiful, if a little old, potted tree (with a 3-4 inch thick trunk, the tree's total height about 8 feet) that sits in one corner of the lunch area. It has thick Magnolia-like leaves (6-7 inches long), some turning red or yellow but most still green, and a thick canopy, shaped like a large umbrella held aloft, deeply concave below and convex above, the whole offering a nice little area of shade underneath.
"There must be a mistake," I think. "This should not be turned into lunch." I look for someone I can ask, to be sure I really am to chop it up for salad.
7/10/08 - Yesterday, the DG discussed, along with others, my 7/9/08 dream, "But Thou Shalt Not Eat of That Tree." Highlights:
Title: "If You Want Something Done Quickly, Do It Yourself"
Our nice frosted and cut class living room table lamp has a short or poor connection in its switch, so to turn it on or off we plug it in or unplug it from the wall. As I am over by the wall outlet looking for this wire and plug, I notice that for some reason there (they) are now fit through or inside and around a roughly 10x10x10-inch cardboard box (with partially closed top flaps) and that there is a little smoke coming from inside it, near where the wire and box are close together. As I am trying to figure out just what about the wire plus box arrangement is overheating and how to quickly and safely get them apart, I suddenly see flames, where I had first seen smoke, rising from somewhere inside the box/wire. I yell to Fran to hurry and bring me some water, intending to pour it over the flames before they spread into a major fire. But she instead asks me what I want and, when I repeat my urgent request for some water, she answers with another question, wanting to know why I want it. I see the fire spreading and have to back away, wondering if it is now too late for me to run get some water myself, since Frances still has not gotten it.
7/11/08 - Title: "Gathering Near an Empty Reservoir"
There is a vast open outside area, starkly beautiful and with a great reservoir, now empty. It is fall or some other cold time, but not wintry. There is a covered array of things (like food or communion items, or snacks prepared ahead and covered, pending... ?) on the ground. A child is involved. People are gathering, some from a great distance. The mood is at once exhilarated and somber.
Title: "Death and Sex"
There has been an unexpected death. People are very upset. Things are not the way they would have expected. I try to help out, but the spirits of the people will not be appeased. They swoop about the inner realm in anger and dismay. I see and hear them, their spirits, in disembodied violet or purple streaming and moaning around an otherwise black and white scene. I urge one family, most directly affected, to let us have the proper service, apologizing that I cannot make things as they should be. Perhaps we can deal with the hurt feelings or anger later in a less formal setting. Though upset, they agree, but their spirits are still so wrought up that singly or in pairs all of them leave before it is over. I see the mother, alone, devastated by grief, in memorial service clothes, on her knees in an alley, leaning against the wall of an old brick building, inconsolable. I do not know what to do. Should I go to her, try to comfort her, embrace her? She seems to glow in the dim light, as if her spirit has made her incandescent, which also makes her seem nude. I am turned on by her large and shapely breasts, her beautiful body.
7/12/08 - Title: "Leaving on Vacation"
I am younger, maybe in my early- to mid-30s, and about to leave on vacation. It is cold outside and may snow. One of my co-workers is talking about the cold in a way that I realize he did not wear heavy enough outer garments to work today and lacks a proper coat for comfortably getting home. We are in a downtown area of a major city. This is where we work, out of a big downtown building. I have started to leave but, thinking of what my colleague was saying, I go back, pull a big old ratty but fluffily thick light blue coat out of my duffel bag (that I leave in a storage area at the downtown building, as if in lieu of a locker) and then take it to the man worried about the weather and, smiling, say something like: "If you still have it when I return, I'd like it back." He is grateful.
Later, I am walking in the city, apparently on the way home and to start my vacation. It is still downtown (reminds me of an area I liked in Washington, D.C., in the 1970s). Several tourists are around, on foot. They are excited about being here and trying new things, seeing neat places, tasting good restaurant fare, etc., and they ask me for directions and where there is a good place to eat. I help them with directions and suggest they go to a favorite restaurant of mine, only about half a mile from here, within easy walking. But I cannot remember the name of the place to tell them. It is quite frustrating. It is a foreign sounding name, I do recall that. I hope they'll at least follow my directions. They may find it without knowing the name. It really is a great, yet quiet Indian dining experience, a joy to find in the midst of a western metropolis.
[For awhile when in my thirties, I worked in Virginia and then South Carolina. During that period and for awhile afterward, I had several good friends in the southeast US, was a strict vegetarian, and was involved in a tradition of intense meditation. During that time too, I went to Washington D.C. a few times for gatherings among others in the meditation path. On one of these trips, I first came across and dined at an excellent all vegetarian Indian restaurant. I cannot remember its name either, though it was not foreign sounding, something like The Green Basil.]
7/13/08 - Title: "Meaningful Meeting"
I am with my nieces, my brother Ron's daughters, Jane and Esther. Jane and I are sitting next to each other in a restaurant booth, she on my right. Esther is to her right, so we are three-abreast. Jane is really opening up, more so than ever before since she became a tall good looking young woman, older appearing than her actual mid-teen years. Though Esther is there as well, we do not really talk much this time. I am quite aware of how special it is that I am really talking with Jane and especially that she is chatting so much with me.
7/14/08 - I have had some discussion with the leader of the DG I meet with on Sundays about my role there. She sees me as having DG leader potential, though I myself have little confidence about taking on that position. Yet she gives me great feedback about my contributions in DG, and I am impressed with her comments. I know in my head that she is correct that I have much to offer in this way, but in my gut I am as yet still feeling very, very unsure of myself and tend to put myself down rather than give myself pats on the back.
Yesterday at the dream group I facilitated in the regular leader's absence. I was a little uncomfortable doing this, but only one other DG member showed up, and the discussion went well. I think he got good from it and felt the meeting had been worthwhile. He also helped with the interpretation of my 7/12/08 dream, "Starting My Vacation." Highlights:
7/16/08 - Title: "A Rich Man and His Son"
I am an uncle to a young black kid (who must be about 13), but mainly am just an observer in this dream. The boy's father is an ordinary guy, in the sense that he leads a normal life, but he is played in this dream scene by Denzel Washington. Denzel does the role very well, and in a quite understated way for such an over the top dramatic actor. They have a small, simply furnished house. He wears a suit, overcoat, and hat in 1950s style. His character has pretty normal kinds of issues or problems. He is dealing with them manfully, as best he can, not blaming everybody but himself for them. He is not perfect and makes mistakes. Even though a lot of fellows around the kid's age might be into asserting their independence by mouthing off to their fathers and showing them disrespect in other ways, this youth really admires his dad and loves him, warts and all, and relates to him well, as if he were his hero, only wishing he had more one-on-one time with him. The Denzel character is kind of absorbed or preoccupied with some of his own issues, such as race related underemployment and having trouble taking care of the family budget, and, while appreciating it, he sort of takes his relationship with the son for granted, but still the kid loves just being with him and studying him in whatever he does, wanting to be just like him.
7/18/08 - Title: "Surprise Ending"
Frances and I have gone to our banker for some advice on financial matters. (He seems to be a banker, tax attorney, personal finance adviser, and CPA rolled into one.) He reminds me of a certain self-righteous sounding, southern, right-wing, former Republican Senator (whose name I have forgotten). His office is small and so is cramped with the three of us there.
Fran does not say much of anything as she stands behind me, but has an air of impatience and cynicism.
I ask the banker about some matter related to my deceased father's financial records or business. The answer, to whatever my question is, is something like " '83 (how old Dad was when he died) or '84, it really makes no difference."
I then ask him to cash a check I have received. It is for an amount between $3000 and $4000 (I think it was something like $3793.) It was given to me several months ago by an old man (older than me, perhaps in his 80s) or his son, on the old man's behalf, after he had died. It is payment for help with some investment guidance he had needed and that I had given him about a year ago.
The old man's son had not really approved of his father going to me for advice with investments, particularly as his dad was quite frail by then and had some mental deficits. However, he wanted to pay the debt properly and so had sent the check along to me.
The payee part of the check had been left blank. I had printed on the check in pencil a reminder to myself to wait on filling that in till getting advice from the banker on just how to make it out. So, I asked him. The banker spoke with a rich (strong) southern accent and in such a mumbling way that I had to ask him three times to repeat himself before I could understand his short reply (which I now don't remember).
He let me use one of his pencil erasers to erase the penciled message on the check, about not filling in the payee info till later. While I was sitting at his desk to do this, he briefly stepped out of his little office.
Then he reappeared, just as I was about to use a pen to fill in the payee line and was asking if it mattered if I printed it or wrote it out (cursive).
He then said they could not cash the check. I objected, but he said: "The decision has been taken." Presumably he had consulted his boss while out of the office. He gave the impression that they could not have anything to do with a check for which the payee had never been filled in till I got there. He acted as if he wondered if I had maybe scammed the vulnerable old man out of the check amount.
I was surprised, angry, and embarrassed at both his refusal to cash it and his suspicions. I knew it was a legitimate check and for genuine services, just not yet filled in completely.
7/23/08 - Title: "Dazed and Confused"
I go into a large building at a university and ask some questions. I seem disoriented. Next, I find my way to another building and ask some questions of a young, pretty, competent, and helpful receptionist/administrator there. I get some resolution of a matter or business I needed to tend to.
I get up to leave but am now feeling even more disoriented. I tell the young woman of my difficulty and ask her where I am. I say I know I am on the University of Texas but cannot remember just where. I ask: "What is this place (meaning the building)?" She looks at me a bit oddly, as if she thinks I might be pulling her leg. Another woman comes into her office area, apparently needing some help from the receptionist/administrator too. As I am getting my stuff (keys, etc.) together and putting it into large pockets on the left and right sides of my trousers, she rolls her eyes slightly at the other woman, as if to say "What's this guy's problem?" But she tells me the name of the building. It sounds something like Blanton but is not that. I explain my mental fog by saying I have not gotten enough sleep lately.
My pockets filled, I look around at where I have been there, trying to recall what is missing. Then I remember, but do not see it. I ask the receptionist if she might have seen my book, the Bhagavad-Gita.
She points out where I had left it, on a little writing desk, the kind that at supermarkets gives people a place to sign their credit card receipts or write checks. It is just in front of her desk, as though folks are often making out checks (or using credit cards) in transactions with her. I thank her.
I am surprised by the book's appearance, for it is a well used little hardback and relatively thick, though I had remembered my copy being a thin paperback, old though it had hardly been opened. I am still feeling rather disoriented and confused as I pick up my book, wondering where to go next and how to find my way as I turn to leave.
[Last night, I had been trying to remember a part of the Bhagavad-Gita in which I believe Krishna is telling Arjuna, the great but reluctant warrior, he must loose his arrows (his doing energy?) dutifully, but without attachment to the results, whether they seem good or ill in ordinary terms, instead offering them up to the gods and trusting in their discretion about the outcomes.]
Title: "The Morning of My 4th Wedding Day"
I am in a huge old house. There are at least 3-4 stories or floors. I am here to get married to a lovely lady in her 30s or 40s (and I am also younger), a woman with dark hair and light or fair skin who is a little shorter than me.
The wedding had first been scheduled for roughly 3-4 days earlier, but has been put off at least 3 times for various reasons not having anything to do with me or my bride.
I get up early today, before it is fully light outside. I wonder if today, finally, will be our wedding day. No guarantees, but I sense this is the day and am quite pleased. I am also filled with a sense of mystery, of expectation, as if each moment is special or blessed, almost as if I were on a mild drug high. Most everyone else (and all in the wedding party are here) is still asleep.
I notice that one lady, the hostess (I think), the woman whose house this is, is up too, and I am hoping to have a quiet, private talk with her. She has seen that I am up and seems to have the same idea.
There are great staircases here, maybe 20 feet wide, as well as smaller, narrow ones, and some areas that are so filled with sleepers that it is hard to get about, being careful in my steps not to step on anyone. The hostess is in a second floor area, maybe a kitchen, that I reach by going down one floor, across an open area, and then up a small staircase.
7/24/08 - Title: "Breaking Up Is Hard to Do"
I am in a quite large old multi-storied house with a number of other people. A very attractive younger woman who no longer much cares for her husband has responded to my flirtations and, on occasion when we can steal a few private minutes away from others, she and I make out with passionate petting. As yet, though, we have not had complete intercourse. I get really turned on by these trysts. Fran and I are married as well, but she is no longer interested in sex.
There is also some business about moving large containers of foodstuffs and other necessities. They will be needed, as though we are in some type local or national emergency and these supplies will be vital in getting us or others through the rough times. The woman I want to have a full-blown affair with is married to a large man who is efficient at manually hauling these containers where they are needed. He and the woman have a couple kids. I realize it will not do to be screwing their mother and trying to get her to leave their father, but do not want to break things off with her. I simply want to keep enjoying our exciting sexual encounters.
Meanwhile, though, Fran and I must carry on our own less family-like household in which there are no kids and little of sex or passion.
Frances and I have a big van for our own transportation needs plus hauling a quantity of the emergency foodstuffs, which the woman's husband has loaded up in the back to such an extent that it is riding much lower in the rear than the front. We had parked the van near our small, second floor residence. As we are returning to it in the evening, we see that the parking place must be very marshy, swampy, or boggy, not solid ground at all, for the van is now sinking into a bog, the heavy rear end first. Indeed, already it is so far down that the rear wheels have disappeared into the bog.
In another scene, the other woman and I are really turning each other on in what turns out to be our final time together. We are all but having sex and are clinging to each other face to face, only a little sheer clothing keeping us from complete intercourse. But the woman is telling me this must be our last meeting. She does not feel right about what we are doing, saying it is not fair to her husband or to my wife. Besides, he now suspects us of infidelity. Rather than have his suspicions confirmed, that would make her feel terrible, we must break it off. I realize she is right, but still am indulging in our last few moments of excruciatingly near climax sexual tension pleasure.
Title: "What Will Pete Do Next!?"
I am driving my car with Frances in the passenger seat, and am leaving our house (a different place than our real one), a two-story one if counting the basement (and in another neighborhood than where we actually live). She and I are talking about Pete. I ask if she saw what he had just done. She says not, so I tell her.
He has been staying at our place and had run out from it and up to a sweet young thing he saw going by and had said or done something that caused her to be alarmed. Even after she had gotten in her car and was trying to quickly leave, he had run along next to her till the vehicle got up to speed and outpaced him. Then he must have been concerned and had run off somewhere.
About then, as I am telling Fran about the incident and we are driving from the house, I see the woman Pete had accosted. She is out of her car again and using her cell phone. She is looking right at our car, apparently calling in my license number to the police.
I wonder what exactly Pete had done, but have no doubt the police will arrest me and take me in for questioning, perhaps holding me till there is a line-up and then hopefully she will not pick me from it. But maybe the police will believe Fran that I was in the house with her and so have an alibi and that we do not know where Pete has run off to. I wonder how long I might have to spend in jail before this is resolved.
Meanwhile, Fran and I have gotten to our driving destination, but no longer feel like doing anything except just returning home and trying to resolve the police matter without a lot of trouble for us.
Title: "Another Washed Out Waterfront Property"
I am driving a very small white car with my mom and, I think, one other person as well. I believe it is my sister, Alice. I am aware there has been some kind of local disaster involving some flooding. Mom does not tell me why, but she has me stop in front of a little white frame house on the edge of a lake.
Two or three children are playing on an asphalt apron that serves as a parking area in front of the place. I'm careful to avoid hitting the kids and so have slowed down quite a bit. The oldest of the children, a girl maybe about 10-12, points and shows me where to park right next to the lake. The lakeshore here is actually closer to the road than the front of the house. Thus, at least the back of the house must be submerged in the lake waters. As we get out, the kids are coming up, interested in who has come to visit and why. We go in. Mom still has not explained why we have stopped here. With us and the kids, there are now inside the house about three guests, three kids, and the three older adults who live here.
I begin to realize Mom must have known these other adults years and years ago, and maybe they knew me and Alice then too. They look vaguely familiar, the way much older adults sometimes do to kids at a family reunion, though the kids cannot remember just when they might have met them, how or if they are related, or what are their names. Typically the older folks will make a big deal about how much the youngsters have changed, saying things like: "Oh! Is this little Phillip? Are you Alice!? Well, praise the Lard. Look, Aunt Mildred, what the cat dragged in!"
Similarly, this time the host adults are making much of Mom's arrival and of me and Alice, as Mom's long ago last seen offspring. I have still no idea who the other adults might be. I feel embarrassed and ill-at-ease that the they might expect me to know them.
Instead, soon ignoring me and Alice, they get started talking to Mom of their terrible misfortunes since last we saw them. These evidently involve both physical declines and damage to their home. Some physical alteration is dramatically obvious in the case of an older man who has had major surgery on his face and head, both so misshapen as a result that it looks as though his jaw and forehead have been pulled forward and his deeply inset eyes consequently recessed farther back. Besides this, though it is not immediately apparent as we look around the inside at the front of the place - where we have seen it so far - they say the house has been so damaged in recent flooding that it has now been condemned, and there is nothing to be done. They will all just have to move, but as yet they had no other place to go.
Yesterday, the DG discussed, along with others, my 7/23/08 dream, "Dazed and Confused." Highlights:
7/25/08 - Title: "Women are Better Than Men at Multi-Tasking"
I am a guest (and soon to be house-sitter) in a family's small home. I may also be a reporter doing a story on them. The wife, mother, and hostess is busy with a hundred other things, from feeding a baby to getting herself ready to leave (on vacation?) with the rest of the family, to tending to her other child or children, to packing, to getting her stuff organized, so that she leaves things in good order, to tending to a small dog, to being interviewed or questioned by me, to dressing, etc. Though in a hurry, she is not at all harried, just doing all that is needed at once, or at least several at a time, one set after another till done, with no wasted effort or time. Throughout, she remains calm, pleasant, focused, efficient, nurturing, and helpful.
The house, though, seems in total disarray, with hundreds or thousands of small personal items of the woman or her children strewn about, at least several inches thick (high), around the house so they cover every surface. Yet, when needed, in fractions of seconds she can retrieve whatever item(s) she wants from the apparent chaos.
She has been telling and showing me, while she gets ready and does other things, what I'll need to know while she's gone. I've been trying to take notes, writing apparently on the back of a white paper gift bag or grocery bag. I have most of what I need written there in 3 small paragraphs or sentences, each corresponding to items I'll need when she is on vacation. But one thing among these items is missing.
It is the key. I shall insert it into a keyhole in a small panel, turn it, and so both unlock, open, and turn on or off a machine and/or an overall system in the house and/or a security system there. The key is also an information storage and transmission device, such as one can use to move or store info from one computer to the other, etc.
Since she is still so busy, I have looked for the key on my own through everything among the hundreds or thousands of items where she suggested, on her bed and elsewhere, without success.
Others in the family, more half-heartedly, have briefly looked for it too. We have all given up. To find this one little item amid the vast disarray seems hopeless. Then, having completed the last of a set of her multi-tasks, the woman comes over, reaches down once into the seemingly chaotic mass of strewn about items, pulls out the multi-purpose key, and hands it to me.
Almost as quickly, within just a few minutes in any case, she also puts everything away, leaving the house clean and in orderly, shipshape condition as she and the others are departing, and leaving me to look after things here alone while they are away.
7/26/08 - Title: "No Country for Old Men"
A corrupt sadistic bastard and his two assistants have taken three prisoners, and I am one of them. He knows I am innocent of all but being in the wrong place and time, but now he has me outside in the heat and the dirt inside a big heavy box enclosed on all sides except for dirt on the bottom and bars in the front. He has decided, with gleeful anticipation, to make me an example and, as part of the "War On Terrorism," is looking forward to torturing me during his kangaroo court interrogation. I am determined not to break or to confess to something I did not do, but know he can break me physically and possibly kill me. I am angry, stubborn, and scared.
7/28/08 - Yesterday, the DG discussed, along with others, my 7/24/08 dream, "Another Washed Out Waterfront Property" Highlights:
7/29/08 - Continuing with yesterday's recording of the 7/27/08 analysis of my "Another Washed Out Waterfront Property" dream:
Title: "The 1.8 Million Solution"
A fellow has bought for $1.8 million an elegant, highly attractive piece of property. Somehow this gives him the right not to work further but instead to do the volunteer activities he prefers. Thus he fulfills himself by both serving others and devotedly doing what he enjoys. All are winners in the arrangement.
[1.8 million is roughly the sum total, if counting our monetary and medical retirement benefits and other income (i.e. from Fran's music gigs she likes) as if they were the conservatively invested principal amounts (required to generate the monthly annuity checks plus paid medical premiums) and adding this sum to our actual real estate, cash equivalents, bonds, and stocks assets.
Also, 18 years ago my brother, Ralph, died of a brain tumor. From that point on it was apparent, more so anyway than previously, that one ought to make the most of and really appreciate what life one has.]
7/30/08 - Title: "It's Not Just the Winning But the Competition"
I had taken an exam, apparently for an extensive course (perhaps in history), but the woman instructor comes to me and another student afterward and says something had gone wrong, so the results could not be used.
She proposed that the other student and myself take a new exam. This time it will be individualized, a more global assessment. I gather we are to see which of the two of us is the better student by each writing an essay on what we had learned.
Then I can see our answers. They have been typed out on separate, single-spaced pages. His is well written and touches on so many good points that it is at least half again the length of mine, which is about a half page long.
I say to the instructor: "My hat's off to the competition!" I add something like: "That was the most comprehensive exam I have ever had."
Our instructor says that although the other student had the better answer, mine had been good as well, so that while he may have gotten an A+, my own grade would be at least a B+ and showed good understanding of the course material.
7/31/08 - Yesterday, the DG discussed, along with others, my 7/30/08 dream, "It's Not Just the Winning But the Competition." Highlights: