Dream: 20Jan2021

I don’t normally share dreams unless there is a story or a context behind them, but the one I had just before midnight (I woke up, as I am prone to doing, for no apparent reason at all, which is why I know the time) seemed noteworthy enough to toss it out there in case someone feels there is meaning to it worth reflecting on. This one seemed to have a message and I’m not sure what exactly it meant.

Maybe I’ll continue to share these when they pop up. Like I said, most of them are nightmares or utter nonsense. This one felt more lucid.

In this particular sequence, the first part I recall is opening the door to a windowed storefront and walking inside a martial arts school. One of the walls was on my left, and the workout space opened to the right. Students were practicing their sword katas — some with live swords, some with bokken (wood swords), some with partners, some working on solo katas, some working on drawing the sword (iai). They were oblivious of my entrance.

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If there is anything I dislike most about growing older, it is the hauntings.

That seems to be the best word for it today, hauntings. It is those reoccurring dreams that are facsimiles of memories, which were never very trustworthy in their storytelling as you watched the reel-to-reel turn around in your head (yes, I am old enough to remember a reel-to-reel tape-deck outside of movies and television). Even as you remember recordings while they are still recent, you suspected there was some lossy compression going on, and as time goes by, I doubt the quality of those memories.

Now I can see some of the flaws, some of the places where I edited out my negative role only to find it years later on the cutting room floor. Remorse? No. I did the best I could do at the time, though I often like to tell myself I could have done better*. Regrets? Well, that’s a different creature and I am full of regret — overflowing some days.

But that’s all superfluous avoidance of what I meant by “hauntings”.

It usually starts off with a dream.

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Liminal Doors.

“I know how to find the Dream Country now,” Lachlan said, sipping at his coffee, the tendrils of steam rising from the black velvet depths in the broad stoneware bowl someone had the audacity to call a mug. He sat back in the wooden booth polished by age and rested is arm on the high back. Too hot, apparently, to drink. Instead of bringing the cigarette to his mouth with the hand holding it, he leaned toward the hand instead and took a long drag, held it and with a languid ennui, breathed it out.

“Bullshit,” I said in a not-unfriendly way. Lachlan had been talking this crap for years now. Most of his friends, the ones who stayed through this little obsession, well, this was the point in the conversation when they’d walk away, ask for a to-go cup and suddenly find themselves forgetting a previous engagement. Those were the smarter ones, anyway.

No one ever accused me of being smart.

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no more late night snacks/

arguments with gyro vendors
just trying to get a lunch 
that never comes
while old friends not seen for years
don't show much interest
in our meeting once again
my laptop stolen when I look away

zombies from technological abysses
rising with tron-line faces
to make a feast of companions
storming the citadel
flashing neon in the maelstrom
and cold, hard rain
-- a typical assignment for work

why these dreams?