I got nuttin', brain is devoid of anything relative to the subject matter at hand. Like so many dreams, they are fleeting and fade away like melting sunsets, and like sunsets, you tend only to remember the remarkable ones.Good night and may you dream.
My Dreams and other assorted night terrors
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Sleep Paralysis and Ghost Visions
Sleep Paralysis and Ghost Visions, a documentary in five parts. Just follow the link which will lead you to my personal YouTube page (laughingbear1960)
Sweet Dreams
Monday, January 24, 2011
Purification in Dreams or Pooping and the Devil
WARNING, This may be to much for the more sensitive reader.
I have used less then savory terms in this Blog as it was the feeling that I got from the dream. They (the words) are meant to project these feelings and I believe that they fit well. Trust me when I say the word "poop" will not appear again in this Blog.
I see into a, 16th or 17th century, stone room, like I'm part of a wall, just to the right and in front of me is a large man sitting on what seems to be a chamber pot. His rough woven robe, like a light brown burlap, is pulled up around his waste. He grunts as he lifts his left leg, Across the room, fifteen or twenty feet away, is a very brightly lit alcove, it's light is what illuminates the main room. In the floor of the alcove is a shallow bowl shaped depression, I can't see him but there is a priest in the room, it's a vomitorium. I cannot see into the alcove, I just know that it is. To the left side of the main room, therebetween a short cabinet and a long table, sits another large chamber pot, it is lined in gold. A priest in fine linen garb of white and red leans over the pot, in his bare left hand are turds, the brown color staining his hand. He is reaching into the bowl of the chamber pot with his free right hand, he is muttering something I can't make out. Just behind him stands a young boy in a rough woven robe, almost like a potato sack. He waits on the priest, holding a tray in his hands. The priest stands upright, turns and places the two hands full of shit onto the servants (novices) tray, then waves him off. The priest looks as the monk rises from his pot his spotty bare ass exposed as he walks towards the priest. "Are you done brother?" he asks. The monk nods a yes. As this goes on two older women come into the room. One is a nun in a somewhat dirty plain white linen habit. The other woman is the monks mother, dressed very simply. Neither woman pays any attention to the fact that the brother/son is still exposed bare assed. The priest speaks again., " I want you to put one of these on now." looking at the monk and pointing at a nearby table. On the table sit what appear to be paper underwear (briefs and boxers). They are made out of recycled paper. The paper seems to be modern as it has advertising on it. The monk picks up a pair (boxers) and begins to put them on but stops before even having one meaty leg in, "I can't, I won't do this." He rips them in half a throws them on the ground. "Son." the mother quietly says, as she puts her hand out to touch his shoulder. "Mother, no." he replies. The woman and the nun leave. The Monk looks at the priest then bows his head.
I was given the feeling that I was observing a purification ritual. The priest(s) monk and child servant (who represented an innocent) were chasing out the Devil (demons) by expulsion of bodily wastes, IE, shitting and vomiting.
Each turd is taken, counted, exercised, and destroyed, as every one (turd) is seen as an individual devil.
Vomiting is seen as expelling a single daemon.
I was given the feeling that the paper underwear would be taken back later examined, like they were entrails, then destroyed. Why they appeared like they came from this time and not the century the rest of the dream appeared to be in, I'm not sure, I will have to think for awhile about that connection from the past to the future. Catholicism is weird.
I have used less then savory terms in this Blog as it was the feeling that I got from the dream. They (the words) are meant to project these feelings and I believe that they fit well. Trust me when I say the word "poop" will not appear again in this Blog.
I see into a, 16th or 17th century, stone room, like I'm part of a wall, just to the right and in front of me is a large man sitting on what seems to be a chamber pot. His rough woven robe, like a light brown burlap, is pulled up around his waste. He grunts as he lifts his left leg, Across the room, fifteen or twenty feet away, is a very brightly lit alcove, it's light is what illuminates the main room. In the floor of the alcove is a shallow bowl shaped depression, I can't see him but there is a priest in the room, it's a vomitorium. I cannot see into the alcove, I just know that it is. To the left side of the main room, therebetween a short cabinet and a long table, sits another large chamber pot, it is lined in gold. A priest in fine linen garb of white and red leans over the pot, in his bare left hand are turds, the brown color staining his hand. He is reaching into the bowl of the chamber pot with his free right hand, he is muttering something I can't make out. Just behind him stands a young boy in a rough woven robe, almost like a potato sack. He waits on the priest, holding a tray in his hands. The priest stands upright, turns and places the two hands full of shit onto the servants (novices) tray, then waves him off. The priest looks as the monk rises from his pot his spotty bare ass exposed as he walks towards the priest. "Are you done brother?" he asks. The monk nods a yes. As this goes on two older women come into the room. One is a nun in a somewhat dirty plain white linen habit. The other woman is the monks mother, dressed very simply. Neither woman pays any attention to the fact that the brother/son is still exposed bare assed. The priest speaks again., " I want you to put one of these on now." looking at the monk and pointing at a nearby table. On the table sit what appear to be paper underwear (briefs and boxers). They are made out of recycled paper. The paper seems to be modern as it has advertising on it. The monk picks up a pair (boxers) and begins to put them on but stops before even having one meaty leg in, "I can't, I won't do this." He rips them in half a throws them on the ground. "Son." the mother quietly says, as she puts her hand out to touch his shoulder. "Mother, no." he replies. The woman and the nun leave. The Monk looks at the priest then bows his head.
I was given the feeling that I was observing a purification ritual. The priest(s) monk and child servant (who represented an innocent) were chasing out the Devil (demons) by expulsion of bodily wastes, IE, shitting and vomiting.
Each turd is taken, counted, exercised, and destroyed, as every one (turd) is seen as an individual devil.
Vomiting is seen as expelling a single daemon.
I was given the feeling that the paper underwear would be taken back later examined, like they were entrails, then destroyed. Why they appeared like they came from this time and not the century the rest of the dream appeared to be in, I'm not sure, I will have to think for awhile about that connection from the past to the future. Catholicism is weird.
May your dreams not be about pooping and the devil... Oh shit I said it.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Blogs I Sorta Follow
Here is a "very" short list of Blogs I sorta follow on Blogspot. They are truly, ummm, interesting, strange, bizarre, astounding, informative, might give you nightmares. Pick one.
Lady Lavona's Cabinet of Curiosities
www.ladylavona.blogspot.com
The Drunken Severed Head
www.drunkenseveredhead.blogspot.com
Mustaches of the Nineteenth Century
www.mustachesofthenineteenthcentury.blogspot.com
I hope that you enjoy these, other peoples, bizarre romps into strange realms. As always, pleasant dreams and watch out for the nightmare monster sporting the Vandyke.
One last note. A belated Happy Birthday to Edgar Allen Poe who was 202 dead years old, plus the 40 years he kept his eyes open, yesterday.
Lady Lavona's Cabinet of Curiosities
www.ladylavona.blogspot.com
The Drunken Severed Head
www.drunkenseveredhead.blogspot.com
Mustaches of the Nineteenth Century
www.mustachesofthenineteenthcentury.blogspot.com
I hope that you enjoy these, other peoples, bizarre romps into strange realms. As always, pleasant dreams and watch out for the nightmare monster sporting the Vandyke.
One last note. A belated Happy Birthday to Edgar Allen Poe who was 202 dead years old, plus the 40 years he kept his eyes open, yesterday.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Morpheus, His Family Tree
I have been waken many a night by them and have known them by there English names for many years. Here is the proper Greek Family tree of Morpheus of the Oneiroi (Dreams).
Grandfather: Erebus, the God of Darkness.
Grandmother: Nyx, Goddess of Night.
Father: Hypnos, God of Sleep (see also hypnosis).
Mother: Pasithea, Goddess of Rest / Hallucination also one of the Three Graces.
Sons / The Oneiroi (Dreams):
Morpheus: God, Shaper of Dreams (see also sleep and morphine)
Takes human form in dreams (imitates precisely).
Phobetor / Icelus: Meaning frightening and semblance. God of Nightmares (see also Phobia)
Takes the form of animals (and monsters) in dreams.
Phantasos: God of Fantasy (?), meaning apparition. In charge when Morpheus goes to Earth.
Takes form of inanimate objects (earth, rock, water, wood) in dreams.
Now you too know who to blame.
Grandfather: Erebus, the God of Darkness.
Grandmother: Nyx, Goddess of Night.
Father: Hypnos, God of Sleep (see also hypnosis).
Mother: Pasithea, Goddess of Rest / Hallucination also one of the Three Graces.
Sons / The Oneiroi (Dreams):
Morpheus: God, Shaper of Dreams (see also sleep and morphine)
Takes human form in dreams (imitates precisely).
Phobetor / Icelus: Meaning frightening and semblance. God of Nightmares (see also Phobia)
Takes the form of animals (and monsters) in dreams.
Phantasos: God of Fantasy (?), meaning apparition. In charge when Morpheus goes to Earth.
Takes form of inanimate objects (earth, rock, water, wood) in dreams.
Now you too know who to blame.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Got Food On My Mind
Do you ever dream about food? Can you smell or taste food in your dreams? Here are two dreams of food, both had on the same night. "Lasagna" and "Mardi Gras Lobster".
It's 3:30 in the morning and I'm driving down a long, pitch black, country road. My mother is with me, I'm driving her to be somewhere. Where, I do not know. She says she is getting hungry and wants breakfast. She wants lasagna. I begin to tell her that there is no place to eat when suddenly a large city intersection appears, stop light and all. On one of the corners low and behold sits a large dinner with a big sign on it's roof proclaiming LASAGNA in glowing neon pink. The parking around the building was packed full of cars that looked like they were from the 50's and 60's, sleek cars with tail fins. The inside of LASAGNA's was even fuller (at 3:30 in the am). My brother, Eugene, is inside waiting for us at the breakfast bar. We sit with him and a waiter brings us each a giant plate of spaghetti with meatballs. He tells us that they are complimentary. (strange, complimentary spaghetti in a LASAGNA house) My brother looks at his plate and shoves it away.,"I don't want this." "But sir its complimentary", says the waiter, and he places the plate back in front of my brother. "But I don't want it!", and Eugene shoves the plate away again. " Would you like it with a nice steak,sir.", the waiter says again as he puts a giant ribeye on top of the spaghetti and pushes the plate back in front of Gene. While My brother stares at his spaghetti and steak plate the waiter produces two more steaks and places them on top of our spaghetti. Compliments of the restaurant, he smiles big and walks away. We all stare at our plates.
I live in the South and have been to many a Mardi Gras parade, and I have visited NOLA (New Orleans, Louisiana for the uninitiated) many times, but I have never been to the Mardi Gras celebration in New Orleans. I always had celebrated in Mobile, where I had lived and where the celebration started.
We are standing next to the Mississippi River near Jackson Square, in NOLA, waiting for the parades to start. (parades, to the best of my knowledge, do not run along The River) People are happy, partying, sharing with each other. Near to us is a man boiling crab, shrimp, and very oddly, lobster. He insists that we help ourselves and he starts to fill plates full of seafood and giving them out to all the people there. Beautiful big crabs and huge lobster, already split and dripping in butter.
... and now dammit I am really hungry for some seafood, especially for that buttery non existent "Gulf" lobster. Happy Mardi Gras. Celebrate the feast before the fast, Bon appetit. Sweet tasty dreams.
It's 3:30 in the morning and I'm driving down a long, pitch black, country road. My mother is with me, I'm driving her to be somewhere. Where, I do not know. She says she is getting hungry and wants breakfast. She wants lasagna. I begin to tell her that there is no place to eat when suddenly a large city intersection appears, stop light and all. On one of the corners low and behold sits a large dinner with a big sign on it's roof proclaiming LASAGNA in glowing neon pink. The parking around the building was packed full of cars that looked like they were from the 50's and 60's, sleek cars with tail fins. The inside of LASAGNA's was even fuller (at 3:30 in the am). My brother, Eugene, is inside waiting for us at the breakfast bar. We sit with him and a waiter brings us each a giant plate of spaghetti with meatballs. He tells us that they are complimentary. (strange, complimentary spaghetti in a LASAGNA house) My brother looks at his plate and shoves it away.,"I don't want this." "But sir its complimentary", says the waiter, and he places the plate back in front of my brother. "But I don't want it!", and Eugene shoves the plate away again. " Would you like it with a nice steak,sir.", the waiter says again as he puts a giant ribeye on top of the spaghetti and pushes the plate back in front of Gene. While My brother stares at his spaghetti and steak plate the waiter produces two more steaks and places them on top of our spaghetti. Compliments of the restaurant, he smiles big and walks away. We all stare at our plates.
I live in the South and have been to many a Mardi Gras parade, and I have visited NOLA (New Orleans, Louisiana for the uninitiated) many times, but I have never been to the Mardi Gras celebration in New Orleans. I always had celebrated in Mobile, where I had lived and where the celebration started.
We are standing next to the Mississippi River near Jackson Square, in NOLA, waiting for the parades to start. (parades, to the best of my knowledge, do not run along The River) People are happy, partying, sharing with each other. Near to us is a man boiling crab, shrimp, and very oddly, lobster. He insists that we help ourselves and he starts to fill plates full of seafood and giving them out to all the people there. Beautiful big crabs and huge lobster, already split and dripping in butter.
... and now dammit I am really hungry for some seafood, especially for that buttery non existent "Gulf" lobster. Happy Mardi Gras. Celebrate the feast before the fast, Bon appetit. Sweet tasty dreams.
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Sinners Ghost
Do you watch your dreams or do you take part in them? Have you ever done both at the same time?
He layed fully clothed, save his boots and gun, on the bed. His chest pressed hard on the stinking mattress, his left cheek rested on the flat feather pillow, it smelt no better then the bed. He wasn't asleep as the other men filed into the room. One stopped and whispered into his ear., "None of yer shit tanight, boy." He said nothing in reply. He just layed there and listened the whispering voice. The one that talked to him even before the men had come into the bunk house...
... He had heard the voice for most of his life. When he was young it would scare him with its words. It would hurt him, make him ashamed, feel bad about himself. Sometimes it was more then a voice, much more. A dark shadow would haunt him from a corner of his room at night. On occasion it would steal things from him. Worse, it would wait for him to fall asleep then jerk him from his bed, tangling him in his own sheets and drag him down the hall. ...
... The bunk house was quiet. The last of the cowboys had passed out at the table they had been drinking at, trying to wash there own problems away. He had learned long ago that all the boozing in the world would never fix a problem. ... He drifted into sleep, his demon, Phobetor, following him into Morpheus' realm. ...
... He lept straight up, standing on the bed screaming, begging at the top of his lungs. The men in there bunks all jolted heaving from there own sweating dreams like night terrors had struck them. They saw him screaming at the ceiling. A thick wet black patch of gore began to drip from a crack in the ceiling. It smelled like raw oil and something dead. Some men began to vomit at the smell, they where still in a mad sort of shock, staring at him, screaming. "What do you want! Why won't you leave me be! What do you want?", he began to weep. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, forgive me. Please leave me be. You black bastard, leave me be." He grabbed for his gun, draped across the footboard of his bed and began to shoot at the ceiling. The man who had whispered in his ear that night jumped up and grabbed him by the leg. He dropped the gun and lept at the widening black patch. His hand and forearm slipped into the ceiling then he began to fall as the other man pulled hard on his leg. He came down, hitting the floor hard a trail of slime following him from the ceiling. A large mass of sludge hits the floor next to him. The men in the room back into the corners trying to shield themselves from the mass of stinking black hell on the floor. He sat there, the Sinner, staring at this black demon, his ghost, and as he did so the thing began to change, the oil began to dissolve, and it spoke to him in a calm even voice., "It's OK now, you are free. I am you." At that all could see the spectre, and it indeed looked just like the dream cursed cowboy. The wet sickening blackness had disappeared and it sat there bleeding naked on the floor but only for a long moment then it faded and disappeared. ...
This was an experience I had on this night, January the 10th, one year ago. I watched this dream and was the cowboy at the same time. A very odd occurrence. I have written a short story based on this dream and what I wrote here are excerpts from the original first draft so please respect copyrights.
He layed fully clothed, save his boots and gun, on the bed. His chest pressed hard on the stinking mattress, his left cheek rested on the flat feather pillow, it smelt no better then the bed. He wasn't asleep as the other men filed into the room. One stopped and whispered into his ear., "None of yer shit tanight, boy." He said nothing in reply. He just layed there and listened the whispering voice. The one that talked to him even before the men had come into the bunk house...
... He had heard the voice for most of his life. When he was young it would scare him with its words. It would hurt him, make him ashamed, feel bad about himself. Sometimes it was more then a voice, much more. A dark shadow would haunt him from a corner of his room at night. On occasion it would steal things from him. Worse, it would wait for him to fall asleep then jerk him from his bed, tangling him in his own sheets and drag him down the hall. ...
... The bunk house was quiet. The last of the cowboys had passed out at the table they had been drinking at, trying to wash there own problems away. He had learned long ago that all the boozing in the world would never fix a problem. ... He drifted into sleep, his demon, Phobetor, following him into Morpheus' realm. ...
... He lept straight up, standing on the bed screaming, begging at the top of his lungs. The men in there bunks all jolted heaving from there own sweating dreams like night terrors had struck them. They saw him screaming at the ceiling. A thick wet black patch of gore began to drip from a crack in the ceiling. It smelled like raw oil and something dead. Some men began to vomit at the smell, they where still in a mad sort of shock, staring at him, screaming. "What do you want! Why won't you leave me be! What do you want?", he began to weep. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, forgive me. Please leave me be. You black bastard, leave me be." He grabbed for his gun, draped across the footboard of his bed and began to shoot at the ceiling. The man who had whispered in his ear that night jumped up and grabbed him by the leg. He dropped the gun and lept at the widening black patch. His hand and forearm slipped into the ceiling then he began to fall as the other man pulled hard on his leg. He came down, hitting the floor hard a trail of slime following him from the ceiling. A large mass of sludge hits the floor next to him. The men in the room back into the corners trying to shield themselves from the mass of stinking black hell on the floor. He sat there, the Sinner, staring at this black demon, his ghost, and as he did so the thing began to change, the oil began to dissolve, and it spoke to him in a calm even voice., "It's OK now, you are free. I am you." At that all could see the spectre, and it indeed looked just like the dream cursed cowboy. The wet sickening blackness had disappeared and it sat there bleeding naked on the floor but only for a long moment then it faded and disappeared. ...
This was an experience I had on this night, January the 10th, one year ago. I watched this dream and was the cowboy at the same time. A very odd occurrence. I have written a short story based on this dream and what I wrote here are excerpts from the original first draft so please respect copyrights.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Dream Job and The Great Gig In The Sky
For years I had always said that when I start dreaming about work it would be time to quit my job.
In my dream I am called to come back to work at my old job, a lumber mill of sorts. I go in and begin to cut lumber. I had made a couple of cuts when my boss comes up to me and informs me that I had just cut the last piece of wood, that the shop was shutting down. I guess they had figured that they were giving me some sort of honor. I felt rather sad over this, it almost felt like the loss of a friend.
The truth is I had rather a love hate relationship with this place and with some of the people. Since me leaving this place I have had a few dreams related to the job but it had always been about one of the employees, I had become close with and had known since I had started there many years ago. In fact we were the only two original employees left at the time of my leaving. We had even outlasted the original management.
I lived in the Mid-West for a long number of years, a displaced Southern boy. I have seen my share of hurricanes, up close and personal, but never in all my years of living in Missouri had I seen a tornado.
My youngest brother and I were walking in what appeared to be a tunnel of some kind ( I think a train tunnel), it felt cave like, as we approached the mouth of this tunnel I started getting a strange feeling. Something dangerous, something really bad. The sky was full of heavy clouds, they sped across the sky in an ominous way. The wind blew across a vast field of wheat. I knew that we needed to stay in the cave but we began to walk out into the field anyway. We got a few yards into the wheat, the wind began to race, the sky was churning and spinning. A funnel started to form. It was time to run back for tunnel. The suction of the forming tornado was making it hard to make it back to the cave. We struggled but made it. I looked back outside and saw that the sky was full of forming tornadoes, the biggest of which was headed straight for where we were. It was like it had an intelligence. I led us a little further back into the tunnel, like we had to hide from it. I could see it coming at us through the tunnel entrance and followed it with my eyes, like I could see through the rock. as I followed the twisters path I saw that the roof of the tunnel was full of holes, big ones. It was like rotting tarpaulin on a wooden frame. The walls were still of stone. We were on our backs huddled against the wall. The tornado was near on top of us. The end of the twister dropping down at us through the ceiling looked like black putrid mud, thin bright red veins ran through it, like they had molten fire running through them. We braced in terror for what we thought was coming. As the deadly end of the tornado dropped in through the ceiling it came in contact with the walls of the cave and would get trapped, the muddy end solidifying on contact, pieces would break off and the spinning end would get caught again on the wall. It tried to get at us but continued getting trapped by the tunnel walls. Everything goes black like I had passed out from fear. Waking up to a real Florida storm going on outside of my home.
Do you dream in color or black and white, or possibly both? Have you ever had both occur in one dream?
In my dream I am called to come back to work at my old job, a lumber mill of sorts. I go in and begin to cut lumber. I had made a couple of cuts when my boss comes up to me and informs me that I had just cut the last piece of wood, that the shop was shutting down. I guess they had figured that they were giving me some sort of honor. I felt rather sad over this, it almost felt like the loss of a friend.
The truth is I had rather a love hate relationship with this place and with some of the people. Since me leaving this place I have had a few dreams related to the job but it had always been about one of the employees, I had become close with and had known since I had started there many years ago. In fact we were the only two original employees left at the time of my leaving. We had even outlasted the original management.
I lived in the Mid-West for a long number of years, a displaced Southern boy. I have seen my share of hurricanes, up close and personal, but never in all my years of living in Missouri had I seen a tornado.
My youngest brother and I were walking in what appeared to be a tunnel of some kind ( I think a train tunnel), it felt cave like, as we approached the mouth of this tunnel I started getting a strange feeling. Something dangerous, something really bad. The sky was full of heavy clouds, they sped across the sky in an ominous way. The wind blew across a vast field of wheat. I knew that we needed to stay in the cave but we began to walk out into the field anyway. We got a few yards into the wheat, the wind began to race, the sky was churning and spinning. A funnel started to form. It was time to run back for tunnel. The suction of the forming tornado was making it hard to make it back to the cave. We struggled but made it. I looked back outside and saw that the sky was full of forming tornadoes, the biggest of which was headed straight for where we were. It was like it had an intelligence. I led us a little further back into the tunnel, like we had to hide from it. I could see it coming at us through the tunnel entrance and followed it with my eyes, like I could see through the rock. as I followed the twisters path I saw that the roof of the tunnel was full of holes, big ones. It was like rotting tarpaulin on a wooden frame. The walls were still of stone. We were on our backs huddled against the wall. The tornado was near on top of us. The end of the twister dropping down at us through the ceiling looked like black putrid mud, thin bright red veins ran through it, like they had molten fire running through them. We braced in terror for what we thought was coming. As the deadly end of the tornado dropped in through the ceiling it came in contact with the walls of the cave and would get trapped, the muddy end solidifying on contact, pieces would break off and the spinning end would get caught again on the wall. It tried to get at us but continued getting trapped by the tunnel walls. Everything goes black like I had passed out from fear. Waking up to a real Florida storm going on outside of my home.
Do you dream in color or black and white, or possibly both? Have you ever had both occur in one dream?
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Dreamus Interruptus, or was it an Intermission
Very odd that I awoke from a dream the other evening, was awake a number of hours, fell back to sleep and resumed the dream.
I had attempted, with some success, to make myself dream about some writing work I want to complete. I have a few pieces on back burners some are starts and outlines and one in particular is like a fourth or fifth draft. I had been fighting with the completed first draft of this work for a number of years now and was in conflict as to what to do with it, as I had changed the tone of it from its original. I have since decided to go back to the original way I had written the story. What ended up happening was a dream about a work that was no more then a couple of lines that I had written on an impulse. A dream about events that have happened in my life (this is no Rabbit story or On the Road or even a Stand By Me), I am not that interested in semi-fiction or autobiographical writing, though I will read other peoples stuff sometimes. I much prefer horror, but won't discount other styles. I awoke at some point in all this dream thinking and it all stuck with me. I rolled around for sometime, around three hours (I had woken up around 2:30 in the AM), I just lay there wondering about this sort of odd dream, remembering things that had happened to me, some stuff was happy, crazy, some very sad, tragic to me. Wondering what this was supposed to lead to up to, was there a conclusion, preferably short of the ultimate one that we all will face. I finally drift of back to sleep and my dreaming, where I continued to dream of certain events in my life, where I get to see friends lost and relive adventures. Does my mind think I should put these memories to paper, probably. Will I follow through with it... maybe, eventually.
I had attempted, with some success, to make myself dream about some writing work I want to complete. I have a few pieces on back burners some are starts and outlines and one in particular is like a fourth or fifth draft. I had been fighting with the completed first draft of this work for a number of years now and was in conflict as to what to do with it, as I had changed the tone of it from its original. I have since decided to go back to the original way I had written the story. What ended up happening was a dream about a work that was no more then a couple of lines that I had written on an impulse. A dream about events that have happened in my life (this is no Rabbit story or On the Road or even a Stand By Me), I am not that interested in semi-fiction or autobiographical writing, though I will read other peoples stuff sometimes. I much prefer horror, but won't discount other styles. I awoke at some point in all this dream thinking and it all stuck with me. I rolled around for sometime, around three hours (I had woken up around 2:30 in the AM), I just lay there wondering about this sort of odd dream, remembering things that had happened to me, some stuff was happy, crazy, some very sad, tragic to me. Wondering what this was supposed to lead to up to, was there a conclusion, preferably short of the ultimate one that we all will face. I finally drift of back to sleep and my dreaming, where I continued to dream of certain events in my life, where I get to see friends lost and relive adventures. Does my mind think I should put these memories to paper, probably. Will I follow through with it... maybe, eventually.
Dreams are odd things as writers tools.
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