from the dream journal

Prose, including snippets (mini-memoirs).
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sasha
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from the dream journal

Post by sasha » July 17th, 2017, 1:19 pm

"Ernie's Driveway"

...I'm driving an SUV downhill on a rough, unmaintained dirt road with my father, mother, and daughter, fleeing a gang of hooligans. They jeer and taunt, but so far have made no attempt to stop or follow us. We leave them behind as we descend into deep woods. When they are out of sight & earshot, I propose doubling back and race past them; but Dad is certain that this road goes through to another. Preferring not to backtrack over the ruts and cobbles we've negotiated so far, I decide instead to do as he suggests, and continue.

Before long, we come to a section that's been heavily logged, where the road is flooded so deeply it's not possible to see exactly where it goes. I gun the engine & hope for the best. The front end drops, and now we're plowing through water up past the rocker panels, but we slog through and rise up on the other side of the trough. Here the water's only a few inches deep, but there's another broader expanse of water ahead to be traversed. At it's rightmost edge, though, there's slash and roots piled, suggesting it's shallower there; so I steer to the right, and we bump and lurch over these obstacles. My gamble was correct, and we reach the other side without sinking; but we appear to have reached the end of the road. We are parked in deep, soft mud that's been churned into chop by countless off-road vehicles & skidders.

We have two options remaining: return the way we've come or proceed. I have no desire to re-cross the two lakes we've just forded, so Dad & I disembark to scout ahead on foot, leaving Mom & Becky with the vehicle. They are safe for the moment despite their alarm at our situation.

Dad & I are now standing in an overgrown field that at one time had apparently been cultivated. It has a feel of desertion about it, of a place long dead and no longer vital. There is no melancholy or dread, but neither is there any sense of peace or serenity. It is just quiet - silent & noncommittal. To our right another muddy track leads uphill.

Then I see the building.

At first I think it's a burned out shell of a church; then it resolves into an old farmhouse, scorched & gutted by fire long ago. "Look at that!" I say, and at the sound of my voice the aura changes to one of watchfulness. The Place is now aware we are here. The remnants of a dwelling suggest the presence of Spirits, and their silence might be deliberate. We decide to return to the SUV. We have not chosen a course of action, but I think it's unlikely we will bring the family to this place.

I hear a sound - like that of a distant door slamming - and in my state of heightened alertness I stop dead. "Listen," I whisper. There's a small wooden shed about 100 feet away up the hill. Not only is it intact, it looks to be of relatively recent construction - the wooden siding shows only a few years' weathering. Then something drops out from underneath the eaves. It is a pair of bats.

They flutter and swirl toward us, and one even alights gently on my outstretched hand. Its wings are more like those of a butterfly - in their resting position, they tent upward over its body. It takes to the air again and the two of them fly away.

"Probably best if you two leave now." The words are spoken by Another, an older man who has suddenly appeared. It is apparent that he lives in and is intimately familiar with this area. I think he has descended here down the hill along the old mud road.

Then from an unseen PA loudspeaker, an electronic voice: "Why are you here? You know better than to stand in Ernie's Driveway!" This appears to have been addressed to our companion, because it means nothing to us; but he seems to blanch, and says nervously "I've got to go now." But instead of retracing his steps back up the muddy hill, he trudges towards the shed.

Now we are surrounded by children - strangely ethereal and precocious. They dance and swirl around us. "Don't stand in Ernie's Driveway", one little girl solemnly cautions us. She looks to be Korean or Japanese. "Especially in The Bell. If you stand there too long, your eyeballs will melt."

Puzzled, I look around me; and now I notice that, among the overgrown weeds and sumacs, there is a paved area tiled in an abstract design. At one edge of this design, right where the pavement ends and the entropy of nature begins, is a triangular area bearing a fanciful resemblance to a bell.

If it were the focal point of an array of microwave emitters, one's eyeballs could conceivably melt or at least cook there, I reflect. I'm now getting intrigued, and am curious to learn more about Ernie and his Driveway...


(...but I wake up before I can. It's only 4:00 am, so I decide to try to find my way back to Ernie's Driveway. Here's where I ended up instead...)


...all my life, I've been severely abused by my father (NOT IN REAL LIFE - JUST A RECOLLECTION WITHIN THE DREAM!) I'm remembering the time I decided I'd had enough. He was stringing me up by my feet in a closet to punish me for some minor infraction, or maybe just for his amusement. Somehow I broke free, grabbed a garden shovel, knocked him down, and plunged the pointed blade of the shovel into his throat.

I was free of his torment, but not of my own demons. My life since has been spent in a deadened state trying to conceal this awful act from others - and from myself.

It's now an indeterminate time later (maybe hours, maybe years), at a banquet dinner. I'm seated beside my sister, and I'm trying to confess my crime. She won't believe me.

"Doesn't it strike you as strange that neither you nor anyone else misses him?" I ask.

"I suppose so," she concedes. Then she rises. "I think I'll go get some food," she says; but somehow I know she's really going to inform the Authorities.

I need to get away.

In one corner of the room I find a sliding glass door, which I force open and wedge my way through. Outside it is night and snowy. I run, bearing to the left...

(here the dream becomes disjointed, poorly remembered ...pursuit, eventual capture...)

...but now I am dreaming semi-lucidly. I rewind time, and use the knowledge that veering off to the left will result in my eventual capture. So now I run instead to the right, even though here there is less cover and more fresh snow, making it far easier to track me down. This makes it the least logical direction to run, which paradoxically makes it the most logical! No one in their right mind would try to elude pursuers in this snowy suburban neighborhood, so that is exactly what I intend to do.

I am running up a freshly shoveled walk to the entryway of a darkened house. When I reach the doorstep, I see a path leading around to the back. I turn - I can hear Them - but I have left no tracks. I duck around to the back of the house...

Sat 01-08-2005
Last edited by sasha on January 31st, 2018, 9:56 am, edited 1 time in total.
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"Falsehood flies, the Truth comes limping after it." - Jonathan Swift, ca. 1710

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mnaz
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Re: from the dream journal

Post by mnaz » July 21st, 2017, 6:49 pm

Interesting trippin'. Amazing how much you remembered and got into text. I too have had dreams where "I've already gone too far to turn back"...

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sasha
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Joined: April 12th, 2016, 12:01 pm
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Re: from the dream journal

Post by sasha » July 23rd, 2017, 11:03 am

As long as I awaken gradually during the dream, I can improve my recall by lying still, drowsing, eyes shut, and replay the most recent images/events in my mind. Then I'll try to recall the images/events that preceded them, and those that came even earlier. Rarely can I work my way back to the beginning, but usually I can recreate some part of the dream narrative. Actively recalling the images seems to lock them into long-term memory, at least long enough to jot some written notes to fill in later.

It's interesting to discover the recurring themes that occupy our minds during the night. I'm often trying to find my way back from somewhere - or I'm back in school for my Master's, but can't remember what classes I'm taking or where my dorm room is.
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"Falsehood flies, the Truth comes limping after it." - Jonathan Swift, ca. 1710

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