Dream 1
I was possibly part of some group like a military group that was fighting some kind of alien or monster. Or I may have been just a normal person who had been drawn into fighting these beings by necessity. I may have had a machine gun or something like a gun: a weapon that would possibly destroy whatever creatures we were fighting.
I believe that the aliens worked by taking over a human body. They would basically liquefy the body. The liquefied humans may afterward have appeared in their human form again, though they would now be the aliens. But they may also have disappeared altogether.
I stood outside, in some place like a hilly area, like in a town, during the daytime. But the place felt trashed. There were probably cardboard boxes everywhere. But there were also probably blankets and other kinds of bedding everywhere. There may also have been cradles and other items from a nursery.
I stood under some kind of structure -- like just a big piece of wood hanging over the place where I was standing -- a blanket-strewn street or something like that. The area I was in was completely deserted. I'd come here with a group of folks. But apparently they were all now dead. I hadn't known it until now. I realized they'd all been liquefied and had disappeared.
Now two, or maybe three, soldiers entered my field of view. They probably hadn't been a part of the group I'd been with. But now it was like I'd been a part of their group the entire time. But it was also like they were a new group and they'd seen the awful way I'd worked with my previous group.
I felt like this new group of soldiers thought I'd purposely let my old group all get liquefied. I may also have felt like they thought I'd just been so incompetent or new to things that I'd clumsily let my whole group get liquefied. I tried to prove myself to the new group of soldiers by telling them about work positions I'd had in the past.
As I spoke with the soldiers, our position changed. At first we were standing under a structure that looked like a bunk bed -- as if we were somehow all standing on the bottom bunk, which was big enough to hold all of us, and which was tall enough for all of us to stand up without hitting our heads on the underside of the top bunk. But then it was like we were all sitting or laying on the top bunk, though we had to slouch really low, as the ceiling of the room we were in was so close, sloped somehow like the ceiling of a commercial airliner. And then it was like we were in some sort of military aircraft.
As I spoke with the soldiers, it was also less like I was just telling them things of my own accord and more like I was being asked things. There was a female soldier who seemed to sympathize with me. The other two (?) soldiers, at least one of them male, didn't seem to care much about me one way or the other. But the female soldier wanted to ask me questions to figure out what I'd really done in my life, to prove to herself, me, and the other soldiers that I could do my job and protect them against getting liquefied.
As I continued talking, the soldiers now may all have been on the other side of the bed, standing down on the floor. We may have been inside some large military aircraft. Or we may have been inside some large building, like a military aircraft hangar. I may still have been sitting on the top bunk of the bunk bed, which may have been elevated quite a ways above the soldiers.
Dream 2
A pretty little girl was on a bed. I was probably taking sexy photos of her. She was cute, blonde. She probably wore some skimpy, white clothing, almost like underwear or lingerie. The bed was clothed in a bunch of white sheets and maybe white blankets, which were all rumpled up on the bed. The room was all white, with some bright, gentle daylight coming in through a window.
The little girl and I spoke as I took photos of her. But I'm not sure what we spoke about. I may have been telling her how to pose in order to look sexier. But I may also have been talking to her about some random stuff, to kind of give her confidence in my past experience, so that she'd feel assured that I could take pictures of her that would look sexy and not stupid or boring.
There was now a white mannequin in bed with the little girl. The mannequin was of a full-grown woman, in the typical model-thin style. The mannequin may have had "hair" made out of some orange material, possibly orange tulle, possibly some sort of organic or faux-organic material, like orange faux branches and blossoms, or branches with orange-colored blossoms on them.
The mannequin was most likely inanimate. But it also changed its position. It was in at least two positions: a seated or kneeling position, and a sexy crawling position. The little girl would weave and writhe in a sexy way around the mannequin's body. As she did so, I directed her, again, possibly by just talking to her about my past experience, or talking to her about stuff that happened in my or maybe her day-to-day life.
At one point the little girl emerged from behind the mannequin, but also out from under a comfy, white blanket. At this point I felt like the little girl would start making some really sexy poses. So I tried to give her some really good direction that would make her feel secure that I knew what I was talking about.
The mannequin was now stretched out in her slinky, sexy crawl. I was trying to imagine the best way to tell the little girl to get underneath the mannequin, so it looked like the two of them were laying with each other. But I might not have been able to find the right words to say.
At this point it may all have seemed imaginary to me, like I wasn't really seeing any of this, and that I was just trying really hard to retain my memory of it and to keep that memory moving forward so I could make the little girl and the mannequin do the sexy poses I'd been aiming to see.
Showing posts with label justifying self. Show all posts
Showing posts with label justifying self. Show all posts
Friday, April 27, 2018
Sunday, April 22, 2018
enough propeller oil; angry twitter man; city council faux pas
Dream 1
I may have been in a suburban neighborhood in the daytime. I may have been dropped off here by someone, possibly my brother or another family member. The street I was walking down may have been level, but it may also have been at the crest of a steep slope of blocks and blocks of residential houses.
I may have been imagining some sort of conversation I would have with someone about an airplane flight I'd taken. I may just have been dropped off from this airplane flight. Some people had thought that the flight or the plane wasn't very good. But I thought it was, and I was imagining a conversation about why I'd thought it was good. My brother had possibly been the pilot.
I had walked clockwise down one block and then another. I'd ended up in something like a wooded park. I turned right and started walking down a path.
I was still imagining the conversation. But now I had to run. Apparently the plane was waiting for me. I had to catch it before it left. My mother was probably running beside me. We ran down a wide, gully-like path.
The airplane -- a big, silvery plane like from World War II -- was somewhere. Then we were on the plane. I was in the hollowed-out back area, which had no windows. My mom was probably up front, in the pilot's cabin, probably with my brother, who was flying the plane. I was still imagining the conversation I would have with people who didn't think this flight or plane was good.
We lifted up into the air. But it was also still somehow like I wasn't on the plane yet -- maybe even like I hadn't decided whether I wanted to be on the plane.
I could see somehow that the plane's propellers -- this was a prop plane -- were having some kind of trouble.
Some part of my vision was now up in the pilot's cabin. Somehow my brother made it known that some sort of tubes that went to the propellers were either out of or very low on oil. This sounded kind of scary to me at first. But then my brother made it known that there was enough oil remaining to get us to wherever we were headed, but that after we got there, we'd definitely need to put more oil in.
I was still in the windowless back part of the plane. But I could see, either through the windows of the pilot's cabin or from some point of view outside the plane, that we'd lifted up over a tall hill in the park.
I still wasn't sure I wanted to be on this flight. But I knew we were already on our way. So I couldn't get off the plane. But I reassured myself, and the people I was having a conversation with in my head, that everything would be okay. I felt like the oil situation had been monitored well.
Dream 2
I had probably posted something on Twitter about some event, maybe some kind of pop culture convention. I'd probably posted a few tweets about how I was excited for the event or how I had really enjoyed the event. I'd probably then posted a tweet that was just a quote, or my paraphrase of a quote, from one of the people who ran the event, possibly the top person in charge of the event.
The person I'd tweeted about, however, was really angry about my tweet. I imagined the person as a white man, bald on the top of his head, but possibly with long, white hair on the sides of his head and a grey mustache that flowed down into a long, white beard.
I read the man's reactions to my tweet and could feel the anger coming from the man. The man felt I'd misquoted him or totally misrepresented him somehow. He told me I should delete all the tweets related to him and his event. He then implied he was even going to try and get my account deleted.
I was now out on a soccer field during the daytime. A game was going on, probably between teenage boys. But it was way off in the distance, and the boys were all so close to the far goal, so they seemed even farther away. Yet at other times it felt like they were pretty close to me.
I may have been trying to get closer to the game -- not to play, but just to see how it was progressing. But I may also have felt unwelcome in the game. And I also may have felt like the angry man was in charge of the game or playing in the game. So I really didn't want to get too close.
The man's Twitter tirade continued during all of this. Somehow the man had started direct messaging me on Twitter. I may have thought this was weird. I was pretty sure he and I were not following each other.
But the man had also managed to connect our conversation with some young woman who was some head person over at Twitter. This three-way conversation probably took place via direct messaging, though it also seemed to take place over the public Twitter feed.
The man was basically trying to get Twitter to delete my account. The woman was sort of defending me. She couldn't see exactly what I'd done wrong. I hadn't misrepresented the man. I'd quoted him directly. She could sort of see that.
But then the woman responded to the man that a lot of times people on Twitter get super-excited about things and post a lot of tweets about whatever they're excited about. The woman was basically implying that I had posted too many tweets about the event, and that the volume of tweets was getting the man all confused, so that it was sort of understandable that the man would eventually feel misrepresented by my statements.
I felt like the woman was actually still trying to defend me. At the very least, she was trying to get the angry man to back off, simply because she found it annoying that he was trying to make sure shut down someone's account. Nevertheless, it was also clear that the woman wasn't on my side, even if she was defending me, and that she -- and possibly even all of Twitter -- found it annoying that I was posting so much about so many things.
I felt like the woman was already starting to be on the fence about whether she should shut down my Twitter account. I had a feeling that the only reason she hadn't already decided to shut down my Twitter account was because she didn't actually know me -- she couldn't actually see me. If she could actually see me, she'd most likely dislike me and firmly decide to shut my account down.
I was now close to a soccer goal. I didn't see any players. But I could probably feel their presence somewhere around me.
I felt like I needed to make a case for myself, to prove that I had not misrepresented the man, that I hadn't even posted very many tweets about the man's event, and that the tweets I'd posted had all been fact-based -- nothing editorial or based on my own opinions or emotions.
I wasn't looking at my phone at all. But somehow, out walking on the soccer field, I was searching for my tweets about the man's event. I couldn't find them. There was some reason for this -- possibly that I'd posted too many other tweets, so that it was now impossible for me to find these specific tweets; or possibly that the man's event had, after all, been so obscure and ill-attended-to, that it was nearly impossible to find any news about it, including my own tweets.
I was in some black room -- possibly a bedroom (or a baby's nursery, but with adult beds in it, too?), possibly my own bedroom, or possibly a bedroom that had been my bedroom but was now partly vacated, as I'd moved out of this bedroom but was still getting stuff out of it. I was lying on a bed. I may have been looking at my phone at first. But now I'd slung the hand my phone was in up over my head and off the edge of the bed.
I may have found enough tweets to prove to the woman that I'd only tweeted a few fact-based tweets about the man's event. But I may still have been uncertain about tweeting these tweets to the woman.
I was probably now on the floor in the room, laying on my stomach or sitting up in some lazy style. I may have been looking at my phone now. But whatever I was looking at was really hard to see and read. I started feeling like maybe the tweets I'd pulled up were really bad examples of whatever I was trying to prove to the woman. I hesitated about sending the tweets. I knew if they weren't good, the woman would get fed up with me once and for all and decide to delete my account like the angry man had told her to.
Dream 3
I was in some sort of official public space. I was in a kind of big room that was full of people. Earlier on I may have been near a food truck. The food truck may have been outside. But it may also have been in this room. While I was at the food truck I may have seen the president of my city council. I may have gotten what I'd needed from the food truck then turned away.
I was now at a doorway out of the room and into another big, full room. My view may have been partly obscured by the doorway.
My city council president walked up to me. He was angry. He pointed his finger at my chest and told me either that I'd said something to offend him or that I'd offended him by not doing something he'd needed me to do.
I told the president that I hadn't done whatever he'd thought I'd done. It was pretty obvious to me that I hadn't. I just needed to point out the obvious to him. But he wouldn't believe me.
He may now have been gone. I still felt like it would be pretty easy to convince him that I hadn't done what he'd thought I'd done. But as I tried, I found it harder and harder to remember the exact evidence that I actually only done good things for him. This may have gotten more and more frustrating to me, as I may possibly have felt that I couldn't actually move from one room to the next without feeling confident that I could present this evidence to the city council president.
I may have been in a suburban neighborhood in the daytime. I may have been dropped off here by someone, possibly my brother or another family member. The street I was walking down may have been level, but it may also have been at the crest of a steep slope of blocks and blocks of residential houses.
I may have been imagining some sort of conversation I would have with someone about an airplane flight I'd taken. I may just have been dropped off from this airplane flight. Some people had thought that the flight or the plane wasn't very good. But I thought it was, and I was imagining a conversation about why I'd thought it was good. My brother had possibly been the pilot.
I had walked clockwise down one block and then another. I'd ended up in something like a wooded park. I turned right and started walking down a path.
I was still imagining the conversation. But now I had to run. Apparently the plane was waiting for me. I had to catch it before it left. My mother was probably running beside me. We ran down a wide, gully-like path.
The airplane -- a big, silvery plane like from World War II -- was somewhere. Then we were on the plane. I was in the hollowed-out back area, which had no windows. My mom was probably up front, in the pilot's cabin, probably with my brother, who was flying the plane. I was still imagining the conversation I would have with people who didn't think this flight or plane was good.
We lifted up into the air. But it was also still somehow like I wasn't on the plane yet -- maybe even like I hadn't decided whether I wanted to be on the plane.
I could see somehow that the plane's propellers -- this was a prop plane -- were having some kind of trouble.
Some part of my vision was now up in the pilot's cabin. Somehow my brother made it known that some sort of tubes that went to the propellers were either out of or very low on oil. This sounded kind of scary to me at first. But then my brother made it known that there was enough oil remaining to get us to wherever we were headed, but that after we got there, we'd definitely need to put more oil in.
I was still in the windowless back part of the plane. But I could see, either through the windows of the pilot's cabin or from some point of view outside the plane, that we'd lifted up over a tall hill in the park.
I still wasn't sure I wanted to be on this flight. But I knew we were already on our way. So I couldn't get off the plane. But I reassured myself, and the people I was having a conversation with in my head, that everything would be okay. I felt like the oil situation had been monitored well.
Dream 2
I had probably posted something on Twitter about some event, maybe some kind of pop culture convention. I'd probably posted a few tweets about how I was excited for the event or how I had really enjoyed the event. I'd probably then posted a tweet that was just a quote, or my paraphrase of a quote, from one of the people who ran the event, possibly the top person in charge of the event.
The person I'd tweeted about, however, was really angry about my tweet. I imagined the person as a white man, bald on the top of his head, but possibly with long, white hair on the sides of his head and a grey mustache that flowed down into a long, white beard.
I read the man's reactions to my tweet and could feel the anger coming from the man. The man felt I'd misquoted him or totally misrepresented him somehow. He told me I should delete all the tweets related to him and his event. He then implied he was even going to try and get my account deleted.
I was now out on a soccer field during the daytime. A game was going on, probably between teenage boys. But it was way off in the distance, and the boys were all so close to the far goal, so they seemed even farther away. Yet at other times it felt like they were pretty close to me.
I may have been trying to get closer to the game -- not to play, but just to see how it was progressing. But I may also have felt unwelcome in the game. And I also may have felt like the angry man was in charge of the game or playing in the game. So I really didn't want to get too close.
The man's Twitter tirade continued during all of this. Somehow the man had started direct messaging me on Twitter. I may have thought this was weird. I was pretty sure he and I were not following each other.
But the man had also managed to connect our conversation with some young woman who was some head person over at Twitter. This three-way conversation probably took place via direct messaging, though it also seemed to take place over the public Twitter feed.
The man was basically trying to get Twitter to delete my account. The woman was sort of defending me. She couldn't see exactly what I'd done wrong. I hadn't misrepresented the man. I'd quoted him directly. She could sort of see that.
But then the woman responded to the man that a lot of times people on Twitter get super-excited about things and post a lot of tweets about whatever they're excited about. The woman was basically implying that I had posted too many tweets about the event, and that the volume of tweets was getting the man all confused, so that it was sort of understandable that the man would eventually feel misrepresented by my statements.
I felt like the woman was actually still trying to defend me. At the very least, she was trying to get the angry man to back off, simply because she found it annoying that he was trying to make sure shut down someone's account. Nevertheless, it was also clear that the woman wasn't on my side, even if she was defending me, and that she -- and possibly even all of Twitter -- found it annoying that I was posting so much about so many things.
I felt like the woman was already starting to be on the fence about whether she should shut down my Twitter account. I had a feeling that the only reason she hadn't already decided to shut down my Twitter account was because she didn't actually know me -- she couldn't actually see me. If she could actually see me, she'd most likely dislike me and firmly decide to shut my account down.
I was now close to a soccer goal. I didn't see any players. But I could probably feel their presence somewhere around me.
I felt like I needed to make a case for myself, to prove that I had not misrepresented the man, that I hadn't even posted very many tweets about the man's event, and that the tweets I'd posted had all been fact-based -- nothing editorial or based on my own opinions or emotions.
I wasn't looking at my phone at all. But somehow, out walking on the soccer field, I was searching for my tweets about the man's event. I couldn't find them. There was some reason for this -- possibly that I'd posted too many other tweets, so that it was now impossible for me to find these specific tweets; or possibly that the man's event had, after all, been so obscure and ill-attended-to, that it was nearly impossible to find any news about it, including my own tweets.
I was in some black room -- possibly a bedroom (or a baby's nursery, but with adult beds in it, too?), possibly my own bedroom, or possibly a bedroom that had been my bedroom but was now partly vacated, as I'd moved out of this bedroom but was still getting stuff out of it. I was lying on a bed. I may have been looking at my phone at first. But now I'd slung the hand my phone was in up over my head and off the edge of the bed.
I may have found enough tweets to prove to the woman that I'd only tweeted a few fact-based tweets about the man's event. But I may still have been uncertain about tweeting these tweets to the woman.
I was probably now on the floor in the room, laying on my stomach or sitting up in some lazy style. I may have been looking at my phone now. But whatever I was looking at was really hard to see and read. I started feeling like maybe the tweets I'd pulled up were really bad examples of whatever I was trying to prove to the woman. I hesitated about sending the tweets. I knew if they weren't good, the woman would get fed up with me once and for all and decide to delete my account like the angry man had told her to.
Dream 3
I was in some sort of official public space. I was in a kind of big room that was full of people. Earlier on I may have been near a food truck. The food truck may have been outside. But it may also have been in this room. While I was at the food truck I may have seen the president of my city council. I may have gotten what I'd needed from the food truck then turned away.
I was now at a doorway out of the room and into another big, full room. My view may have been partly obscured by the doorway.
My city council president walked up to me. He was angry. He pointed his finger at my chest and told me either that I'd said something to offend him or that I'd offended him by not doing something he'd needed me to do.
I told the president that I hadn't done whatever he'd thought I'd done. It was pretty obvious to me that I hadn't. I just needed to point out the obvious to him. But he wouldn't believe me.
He may now have been gone. I still felt like it would be pretty easy to convince him that I hadn't done what he'd thought I'd done. But as I tried, I found it harder and harder to remember the exact evidence that I actually only done good things for him. This may have gotten more and more frustrating to me, as I may possibly have felt that I couldn't actually move from one room to the next without feeling confident that I could present this evidence to the city council president.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
tractor beam roller coaster; justifying my job
Good morning, everybody.
Dream #1
I was in a car with a male relative of mine, maybe my cousin or my brother, on a hot, sunny road. The road looked like Second Avenue just above Houston Street in Manhattan, except that the street was a lot wider. The sky was so sunny it may almost have been yellow. My cousin/brother was probably in the driver's seat. I was in the passenger's seat.
Our car was stopped probably in the middle of a block. We may have ostensibly been stopped at a traffic light or stop sign, though it (now) seems like we were way too far from the end of the block to have done something like that. There weren't a lot of other cars on the street, but the cars near us were also stopped.
It seemed like we had been stopped a long time. My cousin/brother and I were talking about something, maybe to keep our minds off of the boredom of being stopped. Or, possibly, my cousin/brother may have been talking about how bored he was while we were stopped and waiting, while I was trying to distract him and make him a little more patient by talking about other stuff.
Suddenly, a fighter jet flew in front of us. It was only a hundred meteres or so up in the air, and it only seemed to be a few blocks away. It flew at a normal position for a moment, then twisted onto its right side to make a turn. Either my cousin/brother or I called out the jet.
I tried to get a better look at the jet, to determine what it was. At first I thought it was an F-35. But something about its shape didn't seem quite right. I almost knew what the jet was, but I couldn't quite think of the name.
The jet flew around to our right, seeming to get closer and closer. I could see it through my windows, just over the building tops. As the jet got closer, it took on more of a triangular shape, like the wings had become long and sleek, clinging tightly to the sides of the jet. I really had no idea what the jet was, now. I got a view of the underside of the jet, which somehow reminded me of a mix between a fighter jet and a commercial airliner.
The jet flew around the back side of our car. I turned to see the jet through the back window. t seemed to be descending. I may have had the ominous feeling that the jet was actually looking directly at my car. I may have wondered if the jet hadn't been sent to follow me as a potential criminal. Possibly to shake off the ominous feeling, I turned around and looked forward, possibly even hoping to clear the thought of the fighter jet out of my memory altogether.
But now the jet flew over the car and began to land maybe twenty or thirty meters away from the car. It was hovering and descending like a helicopter would. The jet was huge. Its back end was kind of strange, with maybe four jets coming off the back end, in a horizontal row. The jets were like rounded rectangles.
The jet released one huge blast of air from its jets. I thought -- I may even have "explained" to my cousin/brother! -- that the blast was like a little cushion of air to help the jet land softly. But the blast was so strong that it actually began pushing the car backwards. The few cars around us didn't seem to be affected.
The car kept moving backward. It didn't seem like it would stop. I now knew that the jet had made the blast of air expressly to get this car moving, and that it would probably keep the car moving. The jet, which may have stayed landed, was now also above us.
The jet again blasted us with air, causing us to move backwards under its direction, maybe even taking a few turns along the road. Other cars around us -- there were a lot more, now -- were driving forward, in a normal flow of traffic, not unaware of us, but not more aware of us than they would be of any other cars on the street.
The jet now somehow lifted us up off the road. We may have been lifted with a blast of air. But the blast of air, I thought to myself, if it was a blast of air, was now acting like a tractor beam. The car was flown over some buildings, then over a densely packed area of buildings that were maybe four or five stories tall. It was like all the roads were gone, and like now all there were were buildings. But I felt like I was just in some "back area," like an alleyway, or a secret entrance area for all these buildings.
At some point during all of this, the car began moving forward instead of being pulled backward. The jet may now have been gone. My brother/cousin may also have been gone, or I may simply have been less aware of him.
I was directed to a building-sized hole set into a cluster of buildings. Something about this hole reminded me of a multi-story parking garage. But it was very dark and shadowy, and something about its edges seemed more like the walls of a demolished building, or the gaping maw of a monster. Red-painted metal tracks, like the tracks of a modern high-speed roller coaster, came twisting up out of the abyss. My car was directed to and then linked up with the tracks.
I knew, or at least assumed, that the tracks would lead down into some government building. As I'd suspected, I thought, the government had brought me here. I coasted along the twists and turns of the track, always heading toward the black abyss, but never seeming to reach it.
I was a bit apprehensive. I reflected that I didn't know whether I was being brought here by the government for a good or bad reason. Did the government want me because they felt I had some kind of special talent? Or did they want me because they felt like I was involved with some kind of heinous crime. I knew that if they thought I was involved with a crime, they'd probably torture me.
Even though I knew I hadn't been involved with anything bad, I assumed I was probably being brought here to be tortured. I wasn't afraid of the pain as much as I was afraid that, in pain, I would embarrass myself by acting weak and screaming and crying.
Dream #2
I was sitting at "my office," which was a big, unfinished room filled with natural light. The room felt like the side room of a large house, or like some long, narrow room in a basement. The floors were probably linoleum tile. The walls were really tall, tall as walls in a mansion. But they had a cheap look to them. Windows ran all along the top of the wall to my left, letting in dazzling beams of white-gold sunlight.
I sat at the left corner of a long table. The table was like a mix between a trading desk and a lunchroom table. My computer -- possibly an old, clunky, 1980s style computer, and possibly a phone, were the only things on the desk.
I sat before the computer and spoke on the phone. I was probably running down some sort of call list that I had on my screen. I had just managed to get a hold of some insurance agency that was listed at the bottom of my screen. The insurance agency's name was the same as the last name of the owner. Something about that name seemed really familiar to me.
A woman picked up the phone and answered with her name. I recognized the woman's first name and the woman's voice. She was MM, a client of mine from a job I'd been laid off from four years ago. She had simply taken on her married name while she was working at this insurance office, which she and her husband ran together.
Happy to speak with MM again, I said who I was, asked MM if she remembered me, and asked how she was doing. I never really heard MM's voice responding to me. But I knew she had now probably asked why I was at the job I was at, and what kind of work I was doing.
I pushed myself backward, away from my desk, and then forward and off to my right, toward the exit from this room, on something like a mix between an office chair and a skateboard. All this time I was still talking on a phone, which may have been a cord-bound, landline phone.
I kind of skirted the issue of why I was working at this new job, though now that MM had brought up the question of why, I now felt a little ashamed of the fact that I was working here. Instead, I explained what the job was.
Apparently, I was something like the first line of attack in a collections agency, or something like that. When people were in financial trouble with a company that had loaned them money or given them credit, the people were sent over either to me or to my company. I then had the job of calling these people and telling them that their credit was in trouble.
This, I'm pretty sure, was all I was supposed to do. The people who had been notified and who had accepted the information were then routed to some kind of credit repair or debt collection place. Somehow I earned money for each person I'd spoken with who had accepted the fact that they needed to start work on the first stages of whatever process they would then be put through.
I had an image of a call list for my job. It seemed to be like an Excel spreadsheet. But it seemed to be written on paper, in bright, red crayon, and possibly in a childlike scrawl. I tried to explain to MM that felt like this was a really good business to be in, and that I could make a lot of money from it, even though I myself was beginning to have doubts about that.
As I continued speaking with MM, I was wheeling myself into a different room, with cheap wood-paneled walls and thin, grey carpet. I wheeled myself up to a long, wooden desk, like the sales desk of some old merchandise shop, and then out into a larger, office-like area of the room, through a waist-high, swinging door.
Dream #1
I was in a car with a male relative of mine, maybe my cousin or my brother, on a hot, sunny road. The road looked like Second Avenue just above Houston Street in Manhattan, except that the street was a lot wider. The sky was so sunny it may almost have been yellow. My cousin/brother was probably in the driver's seat. I was in the passenger's seat.
Our car was stopped probably in the middle of a block. We may have ostensibly been stopped at a traffic light or stop sign, though it (now) seems like we were way too far from the end of the block to have done something like that. There weren't a lot of other cars on the street, but the cars near us were also stopped.
It seemed like we had been stopped a long time. My cousin/brother and I were talking about something, maybe to keep our minds off of the boredom of being stopped. Or, possibly, my cousin/brother may have been talking about how bored he was while we were stopped and waiting, while I was trying to distract him and make him a little more patient by talking about other stuff.
Suddenly, a fighter jet flew in front of us. It was only a hundred meteres or so up in the air, and it only seemed to be a few blocks away. It flew at a normal position for a moment, then twisted onto its right side to make a turn. Either my cousin/brother or I called out the jet.
I tried to get a better look at the jet, to determine what it was. At first I thought it was an F-35. But something about its shape didn't seem quite right. I almost knew what the jet was, but I couldn't quite think of the name.
The jet flew around to our right, seeming to get closer and closer. I could see it through my windows, just over the building tops. As the jet got closer, it took on more of a triangular shape, like the wings had become long and sleek, clinging tightly to the sides of the jet. I really had no idea what the jet was, now. I got a view of the underside of the jet, which somehow reminded me of a mix between a fighter jet and a commercial airliner.
The jet flew around the back side of our car. I turned to see the jet through the back window. t seemed to be descending. I may have had the ominous feeling that the jet was actually looking directly at my car. I may have wondered if the jet hadn't been sent to follow me as a potential criminal. Possibly to shake off the ominous feeling, I turned around and looked forward, possibly even hoping to clear the thought of the fighter jet out of my memory altogether.
But now the jet flew over the car and began to land maybe twenty or thirty meters away from the car. It was hovering and descending like a helicopter would. The jet was huge. Its back end was kind of strange, with maybe four jets coming off the back end, in a horizontal row. The jets were like rounded rectangles.
The jet released one huge blast of air from its jets. I thought -- I may even have "explained" to my cousin/brother! -- that the blast was like a little cushion of air to help the jet land softly. But the blast was so strong that it actually began pushing the car backwards. The few cars around us didn't seem to be affected.
The car kept moving backward. It didn't seem like it would stop. I now knew that the jet had made the blast of air expressly to get this car moving, and that it would probably keep the car moving. The jet, which may have stayed landed, was now also above us.
The jet again blasted us with air, causing us to move backwards under its direction, maybe even taking a few turns along the road. Other cars around us -- there were a lot more, now -- were driving forward, in a normal flow of traffic, not unaware of us, but not more aware of us than they would be of any other cars on the street.
The jet now somehow lifted us up off the road. We may have been lifted with a blast of air. But the blast of air, I thought to myself, if it was a blast of air, was now acting like a tractor beam. The car was flown over some buildings, then over a densely packed area of buildings that were maybe four or five stories tall. It was like all the roads were gone, and like now all there were were buildings. But I felt like I was just in some "back area," like an alleyway, or a secret entrance area for all these buildings.
At some point during all of this, the car began moving forward instead of being pulled backward. The jet may now have been gone. My brother/cousin may also have been gone, or I may simply have been less aware of him.
I was directed to a building-sized hole set into a cluster of buildings. Something about this hole reminded me of a multi-story parking garage. But it was very dark and shadowy, and something about its edges seemed more like the walls of a demolished building, or the gaping maw of a monster. Red-painted metal tracks, like the tracks of a modern high-speed roller coaster, came twisting up out of the abyss. My car was directed to and then linked up with the tracks.
I knew, or at least assumed, that the tracks would lead down into some government building. As I'd suspected, I thought, the government had brought me here. I coasted along the twists and turns of the track, always heading toward the black abyss, but never seeming to reach it.
I was a bit apprehensive. I reflected that I didn't know whether I was being brought here by the government for a good or bad reason. Did the government want me because they felt I had some kind of special talent? Or did they want me because they felt like I was involved with some kind of heinous crime. I knew that if they thought I was involved with a crime, they'd probably torture me.
Even though I knew I hadn't been involved with anything bad, I assumed I was probably being brought here to be tortured. I wasn't afraid of the pain as much as I was afraid that, in pain, I would embarrass myself by acting weak and screaming and crying.
Dream #2
I was sitting at "my office," which was a big, unfinished room filled with natural light. The room felt like the side room of a large house, or like some long, narrow room in a basement. The floors were probably linoleum tile. The walls were really tall, tall as walls in a mansion. But they had a cheap look to them. Windows ran all along the top of the wall to my left, letting in dazzling beams of white-gold sunlight.
I sat at the left corner of a long table. The table was like a mix between a trading desk and a lunchroom table. My computer -- possibly an old, clunky, 1980s style computer, and possibly a phone, were the only things on the desk.
I sat before the computer and spoke on the phone. I was probably running down some sort of call list that I had on my screen. I had just managed to get a hold of some insurance agency that was listed at the bottom of my screen. The insurance agency's name was the same as the last name of the owner. Something about that name seemed really familiar to me.
A woman picked up the phone and answered with her name. I recognized the woman's first name and the woman's voice. She was MM, a client of mine from a job I'd been laid off from four years ago. She had simply taken on her married name while she was working at this insurance office, which she and her husband ran together.
Happy to speak with MM again, I said who I was, asked MM if she remembered me, and asked how she was doing. I never really heard MM's voice responding to me. But I knew she had now probably asked why I was at the job I was at, and what kind of work I was doing.
I pushed myself backward, away from my desk, and then forward and off to my right, toward the exit from this room, on something like a mix between an office chair and a skateboard. All this time I was still talking on a phone, which may have been a cord-bound, landline phone.
I kind of skirted the issue of why I was working at this new job, though now that MM had brought up the question of why, I now felt a little ashamed of the fact that I was working here. Instead, I explained what the job was.
Apparently, I was something like the first line of attack in a collections agency, or something like that. When people were in financial trouble with a company that had loaned them money or given them credit, the people were sent over either to me or to my company. I then had the job of calling these people and telling them that their credit was in trouble.
This, I'm pretty sure, was all I was supposed to do. The people who had been notified and who had accepted the information were then routed to some kind of credit repair or debt collection place. Somehow I earned money for each person I'd spoken with who had accepted the fact that they needed to start work on the first stages of whatever process they would then be put through.
I had an image of a call list for my job. It seemed to be like an Excel spreadsheet. But it seemed to be written on paper, in bright, red crayon, and possibly in a childlike scrawl. I tried to explain to MM that felt like this was a really good business to be in, and that I could make a lot of money from it, even though I myself was beginning to have doubts about that.
As I continued speaking with MM, I was wheeling myself into a different room, with cheap wood-paneled walls and thin, grey carpet. I wheeled myself up to a long, wooden desk, like the sales desk of some old merchandise shop, and then out into a larger, office-like area of the room, through a waist-high, swinging door.
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