Blue_Opossum

Morning of August 1, 2003. Friday.



I have been living in a “tree-house” - deep in extraordinarily beautiful thick, dark woods, miles from any city or even smaller rural area. The tree itself is actually more like a house-like structure. I live with a female that appears to be a “perfectly balanced” composite of my wife (at a younger age) and Brenda W. This appears to be the same composite female (but older here) from another dream where she, as a very attractive dark-haired witch (with just a slight hint of freckles), lived in an orange tree in the southwest corner of the orange grove in Cubitis. We are feigning ignorance of “normal” human life and human habits and mainstream society. We plan to make a movie to show the other denizens of the woods at some point…a “horror” movie about “average” people and their limitations and short attention spans (as well as their potential unpredictable rages over senseless, usually fictional, beliefs).

After time passes, I feel a somewhat tentative urge to explore a human city. I and a few others wander out from the woods, looking for signs of possibly frightening evidence of humans, eventually hoping to find the theme that can be viably used in our project. We come to a larger town. There is an area where a car drives slowly around, giving the strong impression of a prowling but mindless panther. We hide behind various fences just out of its reach. The city is uncomfortably weird and with potential of unexpected shadows of people (both “friendly” and potentially dangerous) appearing seemingly out of nowhere. We spend what seems a considerable time trying to work out if a parked car is occupied by one or two people or is merely empty.

Various small empty plastic bags (from potato chips and such) from vending machines seem to appear at random on the grassy areas adjoined to the sidewalk, causing one member of our group to become nervous. “That wasn’t there before!” they shout. Perhaps the wind just blew some of the pile from down the street. A dog barks, and someone screams. A bottle flies through the air from a drunk and is dodged by a team member. We go to study a broken hubcap near the middle of the street. We study it to determine if it has magical properties. It has an essence of the “wheel of fortune”.

There is a rumor that live human beings are walking about in unknown parts of the city. Terrifying. There is shadow play and there are false signs. We hear off-key singing. A group of drunks (unseen) are meandering near the railroad tracks area.

“Do you have the map?” someone asks. The map is like implied infrared images that somehow appear on what seems to be normal paper. Each image is of a person who is awake and walking or driving somewhere in the region. A member of the team, for some reason, still does not believe in human beings and claims that the reddish glows moving on the map are actually fireflies.

Every now and then (recurring since childhood) there is a vague impression of the shadows of giant rats (but never the rats themselves) moving across larger wooden fences near abandoned buildings, with an additional concern about random barbed wire in possible areas we try to move through. Ugly images of graffiti are horrendously splattered across the urban landscape, almost like an uneasy perception of unconscious occult ritual with the opposite intent of what is implied relative to the closeness of the images to each other - much like combining the wrong medicines in a given time period.

“There is nothing more frightening than walking through a town full of people,” comments a friend. I am inclined to agree. There is feigned concern and funny business over apparently losing our camera and film when it also seems we did not have any to begin with. Ugly billboards show smiling ogres holding up snake-oil. “The map, the map!” someone yells. It is no longer a map, but a napkin.

Over time, not much happens and we decide to return to the safety of the deep, dense forest. Even so, I decide to use an abandoned army jeep to make the trip faster. As we drive, I notice a strange, miniature wyvern that is more like just a partly moving woodcut design floating through the air, fairly high above us, but not posing a threat. It actually appears to be weirdly and incongruously superimposed on the dream itself, which creates a rather odd awareness for a short time, almost like a “watermark” on the actual construct of the dream (the only time I recall of having dreamt of this) in a similar way as a station logo appears over a television show. It seems to lose energy or injure a sketched wing and fall into a pile of abandoned rubbish on the wayside as we drive by the scene.

Before we get back to the forest, my wife (as she is now fully my wife as she is now) makes a remark about how quiet and peaceful “this part” of the city is at night. And I say, very slowly, “yes, it is…” as I awake very slowly with a very blissful awareness.

Synchronicity: A similar image (of a “deep forest”) was on the next user’s dream on the dream catcher site (with only one code number between the entries. Links here (15244 was offset originally - so the two images originally appeared together when posted):

http://dreamcatcher.net/blueopossum/15243

http://dreamcatcher.net/meghan_oona/15245

Morning of March 16, 1978. Thursday.





Dream Series: The Experience of Prescience, the Inexplicable Dream State Phenomenon. Part 5

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A very attractive girl with green eyes and dark curly hair (who seems mostly of a composite of about ten percent Brenda and the rest, my “mystery girl”, who turned out to be Zsuzsanna) is living in an eerie-looking small house that is also somehow part of the orange tree in the southwest corner of the orange grove in Cubitis. I somehow had not noticed it before within the supposed history of my dream’s backstory, which seems to have been over a period of at least a month. There seems to be a long time period where I am mostly just thinking about this unusual structure and wondering if anyone lives there. (In actuality, it is a more realistic rendering of the tree house of “Miss Suzy” by Miriam Young, and an additional association with “Old Black Witch” by Wende and Harry Devlin. These are two books I treasured as a child, but so much so, I actually later mentally combined them into the same story.)

The girl and I later sit together on the concrete flower box (outside the front west jalousie windows of my room and where my mother mostly grew coleus blumei). She sits on my right. We talk for seemingly a long time about various subjects, as if we had been very good friends for a long time. I am very comfortable next to her despite her amazing beauty. She tells me that she had often been called a “bad witch”, partly because she was born on a Friday the thirteenth (in September). I want to reassure her, but I am not sure of the nature of what “bad witch” is implied to mean or her full story.

She attempts to do some sort of magic trick with a passing car that is headed south on Highway Seventeen, but instead of it working out as she had intended (the car changing into something else or changing its color perhaps?), the license plate from the front of a different car comes off, rotates in the air as it travels, and attaches itself to the back of the car she is focused on. I then amusingly say, “You’re kidding”, in a matter-of-fact recognition that she is known as a “bad witch” in meaning that she is not that good at performing magic rather than being “bad” as a person. I then start to teach her powerful magic through the rest of my dream, including some rather pointless juggling of oranges, as well as telekinesis, and she seems happy and grateful.

“Miss Suzy” (though I am not viably aware of the Miss Suzy story influence in my dream) tells me that she will write to me on March 16th in thirteen years, which is the marker for when Michael died in 1974. (It is also when Susan R “broke contact” with me and no longer “sent” as she had since we met, telling me the other girl “had more power”, even though the “mystery girl” was only in my dreams at this time, though it would not have worked out between Susan and I as she was a devout Christian, which is ironic as she was the only viably telepathic person I knew of until I learned Zsuzsanna was a real person). Zsuzsanna, going by Suzi in the shortened form, did indeed write to me on March 16, 1991, though I got her letter several days later. The license plate magic trick that supposedly was not what she intended, seems to be an analogy for contact from one person to another, as a license plate is rectangular and contains letters and numbers as does a posted letter. Zsuzsanna was born on Friday the 13th in September, 1968. It was me who wrote to her mother first in answering her mother’s newspaper advertisement (due to a dream advising me to do this), but Zsuzsanna immediately “recognized” me for who I was (from a photograph I sent her mother) and then wrote to me, also sending me a long poem (“These Lands I Must Travel”) that was identical to the nature of my hypnagogic dreams years previously. The PAIA newspaper was printed in Arcadia, just south of where I lived for years (and at the time of this dream), though somehow made its way to a small town in Australia.

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