Blue_Opossum

Morning of December 18, 1980. Thursday.



Summary: A town called “Circus World” does not seem to exist regardless of billboard indicators.

I am riding in a car in the back seat - with my older sister Carol also in the car in the front seat, and her husband Mel is driving (it seeming to be the car they own at the time in reality). It seems to be nearing six o‘clock in the evening. We are looking for an actual town near La Crosse or West Salem apparently called “Circus World”, though that is actually an attraction in Baraboo, Wisconsin in reality. Mel is regarding the billboards to determine where to go, but we never reach the town. It almost seems as if the fictional town of Circus World had moved years before. We go past some of the same sketchy billboards a few times over - most displaying an elephant head (back and forth in both directions, north and south, on a few occasions, Mel trying to determine if there is a main road that goes to the east or west). It may also turn out to be, I reason, a small town at the end of a back road, but we do not stop anywhere or get out of the car at any point. Perhaps it is not the right “season” for the town to be visible and is somehow invisible otherwise (or more reasonably, named differently during off-season).

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In real life, a few years prior to this dream, I had given Mel my paperback copy (which I read) of Alistair MacLean’s “Circus” as a Christmas present when I was a teenager (which was a spy fiction story or thriller). Though I saw it on the bookshelf in their home some time later, I was never sure if he would have read something like that and I never asked. That was possibly at least partly the “trigger” for this dream scenario. I also thought that perhaps he did not know what the plot involved due to the “unlikely” cover and title.

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Conclusion: A self-interpreting giveaway occurs; an inadvertent revelation that reveals that what is first read as “All star (Circus)” is actually “Alistair” upon closer examination. This is during hypnopompic dissolution.

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Morning of January 2, 1972. Sunday.



I am apparently a member of a group of detectives. I seem much older and I do not seem implied to be my conscious self. I am riding in the front seat on the right and I am not the driver. The driver is an unknown male with a celebrity essence, though unfamiliar. We are in what may be a police car, but from the 1920s or 1930s.

We are supposed to prevent a biplane from taking off from the runway of a small airport. Soon, it is headed right for us. Oddly, we are also copied into a scene in front of us at somewhat of a distance. That is, we are watching “our” car on the runway ahead, with another us (yet somehow still us). I am thinking “we” might be struck by the biplane if we keep going but it is not that fearful. (The sense of anticipation is not that vivid.) The biplane lifts from the runway a few times, but only just a little, and is back down.

Eventually stopping, and the other us no longer present, it turns out that the biplane is only a painted mural (or perhaps a low-set billboard) so it was never really a threat. We get out of the car. The biplane is now facing the left side of the car and it seems we may be on a normal city street. I feel like saying something but I do not.

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