Surreal sparrows: more dream fragments (12/269)

Man, I started this post, like, a while ago, at least a few weeks.
Mainly, I was just happy that I’ve been waking up with some faint memories of dreams lingering about my skull. It’s been a long, long drought for me. Hence, the screwy, artsy-fartsy, briefly alliterative, Capistrano reference.
I still haven’t dug out that breathing machine again—that $1000 breathing machine—that we purchased to address my sleep apnea, but I think I’ve been trying to sleep longer lately. Which is sort of an explanation why I haven’t posted much recently, but not entirely. Anyways, longer durations of unconsciousness may be a simple explanation for the fitful re-appearance of dreams in my life.
But, I’m a little annoyed that I’m having difficulty remembering these damn dreams! Is it because I’m out of “practice”?
Like a couple days ago: I had some dream where Bruce Springsteen was involved. Somehow. I don’t know how. That’s my point. I don’t remember anything else.
And this morning, there seemed to be a lot of business going on in my head with rain slickers, yellow rain coats, maybe other kinds of rain gear, but there was a lot of putting them on and taking them off, and there were SIGNIFICANT REASONS as to why, but those reasons escaped me upon awakening.
Grrr!
A few weeks ago I had a long dream that focused on some fictional celebrity figure, at least in the scenario I dreamt. In the same way that Bill Gates of Windows notoriety or Steve Jobs of Apple fame have become famous and influential figures upon our society, this imaginary dream personality had made an equally significant impression on our lives and they way we lived.
But the specifics..? Ah, couldn’t really tell you.
He had something to do with our everyday architecture and the way we looked at constructing our cities, professionally and residentially.
He was a popular philosopher, spouting practical, thoughtful, insightful wisdom that was accessible to the masses, like Christ’s proverbs or, um, I guess Confucius’ cookie fortunes (sorry, that was sort of meant as a joke but I guess that came across really dismissively), but he also was a genuine genius, like R. Buckminster Fuller, so that when you met him and heard his casual but enthusiastic discussion of his thoughts and ideas, there was no denying his brilliance.
And he very cleverly disseminated his thoughts/proverbs/fortunes via… origami. There would be mass-produced folded paper birds, the kind where you pull the tail and the wings gently flap?
Except, in the dream, instead of delicate and beautiful, the one origami sample I held was pretty fat and clumsy looking. Picture the aforementioned paper bird and now add a huge-ass cube for a body. Like the size of a Chinese food container.
The “idea” in the dream was that it was pretty impressive and wondrous to behold, like, “ooh, how did they do that?” But in waking hindsight, it was pretty un-wondrous and quite laughable.
But all over this fat paper bird were handwritten this wunderkind dude’s aphorisms, with those magnetic ink markers. Gold or bronze colored ink. And I remember in the dream trying my damndest to remember one of these wise gems.
Of course, no such luck.
And the kicker?
This guy had something to do with skateboarding.
He rose out of the ranks of skateboarders.

But I never saw him. I just knew of his existence and his impact on “our” world.

Weird, man.

But, I’m dreaming again!
And THAT’S what makes me happy.


12/269
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Dream... (9/308)

I woke up from a dream tonight.
Which is cool, because it seems I haven't dreamt for the longest time. I used to dream alot, but that seems like years and years ago.
I love my dreams, even the scary ones, and I try to remember them, for story ideas or self-analysis, or most likely, both.
But a few years ago, I was disagnosed with sleep apnea and I got one of those machines where you wear the breathing mask at night. Well, for a short period of time I was wearing it, but then I stopped and it's been a couple years since I have. The last couple times I did, I woke up in the middle of the night with my throat really sore from being dried out, an occasional consequence from the breathing mask and forced air. For those people with sleep apnea that use the machine and also suffer from a dried out throat, they have another machine with a water reservoir, which I guess acts like a humidifier for your throat.
But, I haven't gotten off my fat ass to go about getting one.
And I really should. Because if I'm not sleeping properly, I'm probably setting up my heart for an early heart attack, and that, dear bored readers (ooh, plural! I'm being optimistic!), will completely screw up my strategy to live at least as long as my dad in order to squeeze in some sort of creative career that I never seemed to have pursued properly while I was younger.
I just turned 47, my dad's 81, and my mom just died: the theoretical prescriptive elements for motivation to step out on my journey of creativity.
Uh, more on that at a later date.

But the dream, the dream...

Unfortunately, it's a bit unclear.
Apparently I knew this guy who somehow wound up on the wrong end of a chase/warrant from the authorities.
I'm in someone's apartment and the hunted friend is there and also one of the "feds"(?). The fed reminds me facially, a little, of actor Aaron Eckhart (THANK YOU FOR SMOKING).
I seem to have gotten into some conversation with Agent Eckhart that there's been a mistake.
My "fugitive/hunted/whatever friend" is always in the background, never fully appearing front and center in the dream. I seem to have gotten involved enough in this scenario because of him that I've replaced him in terms of importance.
Anyways, through some vague chain of circumstances, the feds are after my pal (and me because I'm with him). Is my friend Native American? He's not white, which is my sense of him, not becauise I really ever see him clearly in front of me. I wonder if the semi-recent events of the manhunt for Ralph Bucky Phillips influences this thought (the manhunt took place in the Western New York area, so progress of it was constantly in the local news). Although, nationality-wise, I'm an Indo (Indonesian-European) and that's actually what I was thinking was my friend's nationality as well when I woke up.
But Agent Eckhart seems accessible and I've been trying to reason with him about the circumstances that lead to our being caught up in this manhunt by mistake.
There's the sound of a bullhorn from the street outside? It's daytime.
It's Eckhart's superiors. They're coming in for us.
There's a sense of urgency because of this but I don't seem to be making a point of pleading our case to Eckhart any more urgently.
Suddenly, two older men appear in the apartment, specifically the kitchen. I quickly see them through the kitchen doorway. They came in unseen through a window via the fire escape? They're wearing brown, thick jackets, with a dark red plaid interior lining, like hunting coats, rather than FBI or some other appropriate agency gear.
I also have the sense that their motivation is more corrupt than just bringing in a suspect or fugitive.
NOW I proceed to talk quickly to Eckhart explaining the details of our involvement.
My friend (and by implication, me-- I guess I was tagging along) came to this apartment to visit someone. But that someone was part of this investigation. My friend was not involved with what Eckhart's superiors think he was involved with. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Eckhart doesn't know what to do. I can tell he's thinking and he knows he has no time to process this.
My feeling is, it's not a matter of just going with the authorities and straightening it out back at headquarters. If we get taken in, that's it.
I look back at the other two men and suddenly one has a hunting rifle and he's raising it to his eye, taking aim towards me. The other man with him seems to be along for the ride, or at least, letting this one dude take the lead. Without saying anything, their body language seems to say that they're on a hunt as hunters not a manhunt as federal authorities. This further informs my sense that they are corrupt and are hunting us down to conceal some sort of evidence of wrong-doing.
I suddenly run towards a back door and stuff explodes off a nearby dining room table as a shot is fired at me.
As I scramble to escape, apparently I ain't in the mood for this being chased and shot at shit because I struggle to pull myself out of the dream.
I open my eyes and I'm on the couch, Kody (short for Kodiak) is a warm ball next to my chest.
I fumble for my glasses on the cluttered table next to me and I see it's only 12:40 am.
I thought it was going to be 3 or 4 in the morning.
Oh, crap. I remember I left my car in the street...

My explanation of the circumstances that led us to being chased seemed more complicated in the telling to Agent Eckhart, but it seeemed to make sense.
In my re-telling here, I told it more clearly and it made sense, but it's quite possible that my actual explanation made no sense whatsoever during the dream, even if it seemed to make perfect sense.
My lack of urgency after the bullhorn moment makes me think of my mom's recent illness, specifically when she was finally back home.
Part of me has regrets that I wasn't more aggressive in trying to get to the bottom of her sluggish recovery, that perhaps there were signs that she needed to go back to a doctor or the hospital, but I wasn't sensitive to those warning signs. I should have behaved more urgently.
Perhaps that's why I forced myself awake... I know the resolution of this scenario will not be favorable to me.


9/308
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