Started off with a really trippy part, I want to get that down first: I remember seeing a screen and watching these pixelated, intensely colorful 3-dimensional objects flowing into and through the screen in succession like waves. There was some music playing too, and these shapes represented visually the way the music sounded to me. I was seeing very accurately the images I see in my head when I hear certain sounds in music. I wish I had a stronger recollection of it all! The one waveform/object-wave that stood out most presented itself after a bellowing strike of organic bass drums and brass - its thick, soft columns were orange and yellow, with caved in tops - identical at least in shape to the imagery I experience in my head when I hear sounds like that. On a coincidental note, I read a few parts of Enter the World of Lucid Dreaming' yesterday, and there was a section that talked about surreal sensory environments that occur occasionally in dreams. This was definitely one of them. In a dream I had just before waking, I was with my cousin. The first segment of the dream took place in the context of some war that may have been aliens vs. humans. We were piloting tanks and running from hostile tanks, causing and evading big explosions. It ended with us being at Camp Chawanakee, with my old scout master showing me how to chop wood after I had failed.
Inspired by 'America's Got Talent', one of my first dreams was about some wily buddies of mine doing an acrobatics stunt show. We were all in a matted red-floored arena. We were doing acrobatic butt-painting: not that we were painting butts, instead, we were painting WITH our butts. It went like this: buddy number one would dip his butt in paint, and then do this super diving board stunt that would launch him hundreds of feet into the air. On the way down, he'd smack his painted butt onto a canvas and make a big ol' paint smear. Everybody would start cheering. All things considered, it was very impressive and clearly required some highly exacted and specialized skill. Go him. Next thing I know, I'm in the mountains with my Dad, and we're hunting these cool birds that look like gray pigeon-parrots. I'm shooting a shotgun with dense rounds of bird shot. The gun is hard for me to handle at times, and at one point I get afraid of its weight and power in my hands and discharge it into the gray mist of the forest. Soon after, my Dad and I see one of the pigeon-parrots fly towards us with what seems to be a broken wing. We go to rescue it. While standing next to the pigeon-parrots, the scene morphs, and Father and I are on a truck in a small mountain road. Some guys in the car next to us ask about the way to Camp Chawanakee, an old Boy Scout camp I used to go to every Summer.
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