Bad Dream 139 -- Morning of 2/17/21

This dream had two distinct scenarios, but they felt connected by the personnel in them:

In the first part of my dream, I find myself in New York City with a well informed Resident of the city plus an Unidentifiable.  We are in an elevator in the Empire State Building headed for the top.  The Resident is saying something about the city and life therein, but I'm not paying much attention to what he's saying.  (It's definitely a "he.")

The elevator stops at the top end of its range and we get out.  We're on the roof, which is flat with a hip- or chest-high wall around it so that people don't accidentally fall off or are blown off or pushed off.  I walk to the wall and look over and down.  And get that feeling in my innards -- including my groin -- that this is not a good place to be nor a good thing to look at.  But I do it anyway.  When I've had enough, I walk back away from the wall.

I know that the weather is nice.  It's warm but not hot, partially sunny with a light breeze.  If we were to stay on the roof for some significant time -- the three of us -- that would be fine, but the Resident (I think) is gently urging us to get back in the elevator.  

As we descend, I see that the elevator has a glass wall that allows us to watch the city as we slowly descend.  

In the second part of my dream, the three of us are outside, standing on a grassy plot.  I look down and see a small turtle.  It's quite round with an unusually flat shell.  It is crawling out from the grass.  I pick it up and decide it is likely a child's pet that got separated from its owner.  I take a quick look around to try and locate anyone who might be the turtle's owner, but there's no one that looks likely.  

I hold the turtle in one hand and cup the other hand over top.  The turtle is not thrilled with this maneuver, but isn't objecting too strenuously.

It occurs to me that the turtle might be perfectly happy to spend its days in Central Park, and ask the Resident what would be the best way to get there.  But the Resident explains that it would be difficult and the best way might be to walk but it's a very long walk and it's getting dark and you would not want to be out on the streets at this time of the evening.  We are standing on a sidewalk(?) near a busy piece of road, and it is rather dark.  Store signs lit up and people walking by rather quickly and not paying attention.  Cars passing as well.  Clearly to put this tiny turtle down on the pavement of street or sidewalk would be the end of the turtle in quick order.  

Looking down at what is rapidly becoming my turtle, I see there's slight chip in the shell.  Nothing that would interfere with the turtle having a long and happy life -- assuming we could find a way to get him/her to a proper marsh/swamp area where she/he would be comfortable.  

I start considering what arrangements I am going to have to make to take care of this turtle until I can get it to such a place.  Occasionally the turtle extends its head and legs, letting me know that it's ready to start marching somewhere.  

I wake up.

We interrupt this Program -- 02/14/21

Something happened yesterday that I felt I needed to document.  To "tell" it to "someone."  To write a Journal entry even if I don't keep a journal.  So here goes:

Pat Grauer hosts a bi-weekly Zoom session of the folks from the School of the Spirit's 11th class.  I attend from time to time, but its start time of 6:00 on Saturday evening is inconvenient -- and, especially because I'm not a regular attender, I'm not going to ask anyone to change the timing.  

In setting up yesterday's Zoom, Pat suggested that we have pen and paper nearby and think of an introductory phrase -- not a sentence! -- from which everyone can write up what occurs to them that starts with that phrase.  And, since it was the day before Valentine's Day, it should have something to do with love.  She allotted 5 minutes for each entry.  

She started the ball rolling with her phrase, which was "My first kiss was..." And we were all supposed to use that in our response.  I thinking about what I would write, Ifelt that revisiting this time and place and event(s) were touching on something very tender.  That's "tender" in its unpleasant sense.  Your-skin-after-it-gets-burned kind of tender.  And it wasn't at all clear why that happened.

There were six people in the Zoom session, and -- after the 5-minute writing allocation -- four of them read theirs out loud.  And they tended to be sweet and silly as you might suppose.  As they read their stories, my discomfort only went deeper.  It felt like something was lurking in my "time and space and event(s)" that I couldn't share, among other reasons (i.e., it promised to be embarrassing), I really didn't understand what it was that troubled me so.  I couldn't put it in words and I didn't know why not.  

Okay, I can tell you about "My first kiss," and see if that opens anything:

I hadn't dated or even had any kind of friendship with a girl until I was a Senior in High School.  Then I met Gail, who was -- I think -- a Junior at the time.  I think we met because we both came out for the school's tennis team.  Which means it was not only Senior year, but springtime as well.  In other words, late in the school calendar.

My first kiss took place at a birthday party that summer -- I think for one of Gail's friends -- that took place someone's basement.  Maybe14 or so teenage kids, most of whom were, as I recall, paired up.  Gail and I found ourselves a corner at some distance from the rest of the partygoers and she had her back to the wall when I got close and kissed her.  I think the energy that caused this to happen was basically hers, not mine.  I felt the world open up.  Walking home the several miles to my parents' home, I felt like Gene Kelly in that movie.      

I guess I fell really hard for her.  Among other things, my older brother, who seldom said anything guy-to-guy to me, told me to lighten up.  Don't take it too seriously.  There are a lot of girls in the world.  But, as will happen in situations like this, I "knew" that Richard simply didn't understand.  I knew deep in my heart that this was The Real Thing.  

Through the summer, Gail and I were pretty much inseparable.  And, when the opportunity allowed, did some intimate touching without having sex.  She taught me how to do French kissing.  

When I went off to Drexel in Philadelphia, Gail and I made all sorts of promises to each other about writing and occasionally phoning (this was decades before the cellphone!), and my visits back to Baltimore were, as I recall, basically dropping off some laundry for Mom to wash and borrowing the family car to take Gail out bowling or somesuch.  

As I started getting the "feel" of college life and meeting so many other people, I began to realize how many really smart and aware people there were in the world.  And that marrying Gail would likely mean a humdrum middle-class existence in suburban Baltimore.  And that I was capable of living a much larger existence.  Academic things that meant a lot to me seemed to be totally lost on Gail.  And I knew that she couldn't change.  And that I couldn't change.  

And I met another girl who was mysterious and wonderful and smart and was someone who would tolerate me.  Her name was Mary.  

So there was a considerable laundry list of reasons why I had to terminate the relationship with Gail.  She was young (of course!) and pretty and had a fun spirit.  She shouldn't have much of a problem finding someone else.  And the sooner we parted, the sooner she could move on.  

And I "had" Mary.  (Spoiler alert: I think she always liked me, and, if I could have managed it, we could have stayed friends to this very day.  But that's not what I wanted.  Not what I felt I needed.  I think about her from time to time and hope that things worked out well for her.  Back in the late 1960's, she wanted to get into Real Estate.  I'd love to spend an hour or so with her -- to let her know I'm fine and I still think you're wonderful.)

So Gail and I split.  Things were complicated by this time, because my sister was dating Gail's brother.  But I'll just leave that fact on the table and walk away from it, except to say that neither Martha nor me married into that family...

So my other relationships at Drexel were, as the poet says, "a dog's breakfast."  Careening from one passion to another, never really understanding what had happened, what was happening, and was bound to happen sometime soon.  

Several years later, Gail got in touch with me.  She was still living in Baltimore and I was living in a co-op in West Philadelphia.  She said she just wanted to get together and talk.  I really didn't want to have that happen, but it seemed to be really important to her, so I said "Okay, you can come up to visit."  She took the train up and I met her at 30th Street Station.  

We had a pretty good time, as I showed her around what my Philadelphia was like.  I think we ate pizza at a small but really good Italian restaurant that I knew.  And we went back to my co-op and slept together and had sex.  And, if it hadn't occurred to me before this, it certainly occurred to me at the time: she's trying to "win me back."  I'm sure she had "chalked up" the fact that she and I would be married and was in the process of trying to re-start that idea.  

Looking back on it, it might have been a much better idea if I declined the sex.  But I was in my early 20's and "free love" was all the rage.  

After, I think, two days, I took Gail back to the train station and got her on the train back to Baltimore.  She sat in a window seat so she and I could wave good-bye to each other.  And I think it hit home for her that her "plan" of starting up our relationship was simply not going to work.  She started to cry just as the train started to move. 

My sister told me -- sometime back then -- that Gail was still having difficulties adjusting to this most unwelcome reality.  She had always been full of positive energy and fun.  And the idea that I may have crushed this -- even for a week or two -- is something for which I can't forgive myself.  Still.

I may come back to this entry and...

Thanks for listening.

Wait a minute.  This is starting to feel like "story." As in a narrative that you hold as an explanation of who you are and why you do what you do.  

Bad Dream 138 -- Morning of 2/12/21

 This is a "patchwork" recollection of images from what seems to have been parts of an extensive and multifaceted dream.  About musical instruments:

The first-part recollection is quite short.  I am trying to justify obtaining and playing a trumpet.  And I am telling myself, "Well, I can practice in the basement."  And the basement under consideration is the basement at 1209 Tupelo Place in Baltimore.  I think my concern here was playing badly while practicing my lessons and annoying other members of the household.  But at some level, I understand that being in the basement would not provide adequate sound insulation from the rest of the house.

The rest of the dream centers around building a case for the instrument of my choice -- which changes mid-dream back and forth between a clarinet and a flute.  I'm not sure whether this is a case for my instrument that I will keep to carry my instrument of choice or whether it's to hold if for someone else -- possibly for sale.  I am making the case out of plywood, of course, and it involves two halves that are hinged together.  At this point in the fabrication, it's still bare wood.  

In this process, which is being casually overseen by several Unidentifiables, the instrument changes from a clarinet to a flute.  I am holding the main body of the flute, which is in a clear plastic sleeve.  I understand this to be a new flute just coming out of that sleeve.  My image is of the flute body roughly half-way out of the sleeve, which is crumpled up around the still-encased portion of the plastic sleeve.  

At other times in the dream, I am placing sections of the clarinet (Your standard clarinet comes apart into four pieces: a bell, a mouthpiece, and two main body parts.) into the two halves of the case looking to determine the best way to allocate space and make the requisite padding.  This is turning into a serious issue, as there is no apparently easy way to do this fitting business.  At times, I see a considerable number of pieces -- all of which look like clarinet pieces, but I'm baffled as to why there are so many of them.  

At one point, I realize that the clarinet I've been working on has come equipped with a short stool, which is also nearby and also in pieces.  The pieces resemble a heavyweight music stand, but on wheels rather than a tripod or flat circular base.  I'm not sure whether I should or need to make arrangements in the case I'm building for the several pieces of the stool, but decide that would not be possible in the dimensions of the case that I've already constructed.

I wake up.

Bad Dream 137 -- Morning of 2/3/21

In my dream, I am driving around somewhat aimlessly.  Deb is off someplace doing something and I'm just trying to find a way to do something interesting and maybe constructive. 

After driving through a small town of not-very-interesting buildings, I find myself driving past a large building that turns out to be a rather modern high school.  For reasons that are not clear to me, I turn into the parking lot with the intention of finding out more about the building.  The parking lots (there are at least two of them) are remarkably small and have grass growing right up to the asphalt.  No curbing.  This is somewhat surprising, as the appearance of the building suggests that the lots should be bigger and more completely made (i.e., curbing and lines for individual parking spaces).  There are a few cars in the lot, and considerable open spaces as well.  

I get out of the car to prowl around the building, feeling there's no way I will be able to enter.  And I'm surprised when I see a guy wearing a suit open one of the side doors and walk out.  I don't remember hearing any "click" sounds as he left, suggesting that the door is unlocked.  So I walk over to the door and, surprisingly, pull the door open and walk inside.  

Walking around a little bit confirms that this is a high school -- and that the building, while not being terribly new and "modern" has been well kept.  The hallways are, unsurprisingly, well polished terrazzo.  I continue to walk, and find myself walking past an enormous and well kept and well lighted gym.  As I peek inside, I can hear some voices, suggesting that there are a few people in there.  But I can't see anyone and can't really tell what the people whom I'm hearing are doing.  That is, I can't hear any balls bouncing or people calling loudly to teammates.  I continue walking past the gym.  

The next thing I "see" is a glass enclosed room, with a hardwood floor.  A young woman is in there, striking a ball towards the "front wall."  Her racquet is shaped like a squash racquet and the ball looks to also be a squash ball.  She's very intent on her shot, but I can't see any opponent on the court.  Also, the shape of the court is all wrong for squash.  It's square and maybe 18 feet on a side.  I think that the size and shape of the court simply allows too many shots that an opponent couldn't retrieve.  Part of me wants to stay and watch, but (I think) I don't want to be a distraction to the young lady's game.  In any case, I keep walking.  

I next pass a smaller gym space, and just inside the door, there's a teenage boy on a rowing machine -- one with oar handles that pivot rather than a single "T" bar to pull.  The young man is as intense as the squash player.  And, as before, I decide not to interrupt.  

 As I continue walking, I pass a man in a suit who's holding a small white disk.  He's talking to himself (or on a cell phone) as he examines the disk.  He says something like: "Yeah it's really quite nice but expensive.  They cost a thousand dollars for ______."  (I'm not sure I heard the amount of disks you could get for a thousand dollars.  If I did, I don't remember anyway.)

I next find myself outside the building.  Exploring had been interesting, but it was time for me to move on.  I walk to the parking lot where I was fairly sure I parked my car, which I'm sure is the one I drive now -- the gray Tiguan.  I don't see it anywhere.  

I walk over to the other parking lot, but don't see the car anywhere there either.  I start to get concerned that my car simply isn't there.   

I wake up.

WHAT THIS ALL MEANS

What occurred to me shortly after I meditated and got out of bed was that the activities that I witnessed were those that I had actually done myself.  I certainly spent considerable time on a squash court years ago.  And I had a sliding-seat rowing shell for years as well.  The gym space that might represent the Turks Head Jugglers practice space.  And the disk that the man was holding might represent a golf ball in "dream language."  And all these activities are pretty much in my past, with the possible exception of golf.  My past -- like my being in high school.

I feel there's more to analyze here (the small town, why the thought about Deb, the small parking lots, etc.) but the above is all I can get at the moment.