Monday, November 26, 2012

Trip to Mumbai (combining two dreams)

I have had two dreams over the last month or so that placed me in Mumbai. The feel was the same in both so I will write them here, with the first dream coming first.

I had travelled there for my junior high school friend's art exhibition. He was a sculptor. So I went to a shopping mall where the art gallery was. The gallery was all decorated in off-white gossamer. I found his sculptures in a back room of the gallery, partially open to the outside. The sculptures were alabaster. But I did not know very much about art so I just simply admired them and then went back outside.

I was glad to be there. That was the main feeling I had - happiness at being back in India. I was travelling with another lady, only known to me in the dream, named Caroline. She was an American woman in her 40s. We were at a train depot and needed money, so we used our ATM cards to get out American money and then had it changed into rupees at another, completely automated, kiosk. I did not know those sorts of things were possible, but it had been a long time since I had been to India.

We travelled out a bit to the suburbs, where we went to a party. Some of my online friends were there. Many nameless and faceless people, too. We lounged around in a white room. Two friends in particular I met there. One was just as I had imagined - the kindest, friendliest person with a million dollar smile, a heart of gold, and interesting things to say. He just was so full of brilliance and care that I wanted to talk to him to the exclusion of everyone else, but he and Caroline were in a conversation so I turned my attention to the rest of the party, and another friend who I was meeting for the first time. We had an interesting rapport, he and I; I felt I always had to be at the intellectual ready, but didn't feel like it was a one-upping conversation. I have used the term 'mind sharpener' to describe such people and conversations, but those conversations often felt a bit forced, as if I had to prove myself. This was not so forced. I do not even remember what we talked about. Certainly literature; maybe politics. It was intellectual, yet effortless and natural. And at the moment when I realized how effortless and natural it was, I realized I had something very important to say.

"I have to go."

And I got up, took Caroline with me, and we left.

We pondered how to get back to the downtown area (Although it was Mumbai, it was nothing like Mumbai actually was. It was more like Chicago, actually.) and decided we would take the metro. So we headed over to the metro. Images of the downtown area, brought from another dream, filled my mind. Narrow streets, brick buildings, again nothing like what is reality but it was indeed the downtown in my dream.

And I suppose we went there, but in a dream I have not yet dreamed.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Dreams that ended lucidly but otherwise were messed up

I went to Baton Rouge for work and it was at the same time as the Diwali show. So I also went to that,w hich was nice. At some point I had to go to the bathroom, so I went down the hall to the women's locker room. I walked into the men's first and saw a bunch of guys chilling in the hot tub, realized I was in the wrong one, and went to the women's quickly. There was also a hot tub there, and also a sauna and a steam room. I thought again about the fact that I miss having a steam room and hadn't gone to a gym that had one since 2008. There were, of course, lockers - it was a locker room after all. But there were no toilets. So I realized I had to wake up if I wanted to go to the bathroom.

It was 5:30 AM when I woke up. I thought I'd stay awake, but I fell asleep again.

And in this second dream, I was at home again, but some friends from the recent past had come back to visit. It was really nice to see them, but then they decided they wanted to get a picture of me laughing. I didn't want to take a picture, so one of them tickled my feet while the other one took pictures. I told them if they posted the pictures on Facebook, I'd kill them.

And this is how I found out that I am ticklish even in my dreams.

Friday, September 28, 2012

The manuscript of no return

I had gone on a trip, to a work outing of a sort; an offsite. I do not remember very much except a short plane flight on a very small, maybe a 16-seater plane. I had spoken with the pilot as though he were a bus driver. The  plane was well-outfitted with pale lacquered wood and almond-colored leather; very 1980s millionaire chic. Yet none of us were millionaires.

We got to our location and I unpacked my suitcase. Inside my suitcase was a story I had written. It was a story of my own thoughts and feelings regarding a sensitive matter, except with all names changed. However, someone who was mentioned quite a lot in the story did skim over the first page, just by glancing in my suitcase. Recognized it. Wanted to read more.

I was torn between handing over the manuscript, thus revealing all my private thoughts, and keeping it to myself even though I thought what was said there needed to be said. It was a moment of no return though; no matter what happened after that, everything would have changed one way or another.

I can't remember what my reaction was.

I woke up and the moral from the dream, to me, seemed to be to pack personal items in your suitcase underneath your clothes.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

the etiquette of toys

In this dream, my sister lived in a colonial-era bungalow in India and I guess it was the colonial era, because she was not allowed to leave the house either. My brother-in-law was a wealthy landowner and would go out On Business. When he was gone, my sister was bored, so he would bring her beautiful wooden painted toys to keep her occupied. 

But she didn't like wooden toys; she liked plastic toys and would get other people in the house to bring her plastic toys.

My BIL found out about it and brought her a plastic toy on his next return home but was angry that she preferred the plastic toys over the handpainted wooden ones. 

Saturday, June 2, 2012

A heavy warm stay in Tri-Cities

From Sept. 10, 2011

I moved to Tri-Cities and stayed with the family of a friend there. The house was almost like an apartment building and had a garage apartment, but I slept in the actual house, not the garage apartment. I did not know how long I would stay there. 

I lived everyday life there with the family. It was a life I loved; I felt like I was living in a dream where everything was full of orange and brown, flecks of yellow, nostalgia from a childhood I experienced and from one my friend experienced all wrapped up into a shared nostalgia that we were still lucky to live in.

We then went bike riding in Moscow, because of course in this dream Moscow was part of Tri-Cities. However, as we were nearing the edge of the U of I campus, we heard there was a tornado warning and decided to head back. We did not see any tornadoes though; only rain in the distance. My friend's bike broke down and I had to fix it, which I did with little difficulty, and we made it back before the rain.

When we returned, I wanted to make tea, but in my own kitchen there were no pots and pans. I took some from the main kitchen and began to make tea. My friend's sister and mom came in and wanted to talk about how long I would stay, because the neighbors had seen a card with my name on it and had complained; they said that citizens were not welcome in this neighborhood, only immigrants. I told them that was ridiculous and illegal, but I was ready to move back to Pullman because I missed Anirban. I called him and he was happy to hear that I was coming back. So I got ready to move back to Pullman, bringing the orange and brown memories of nostalgia back with me.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

When no one came to our rescue

I dreamt that AM and I were in Baton Rouge, and we needed to go to the Walmart on Siegen Lane. We went there, parked in the parking garage, and went inside. Once inside the Walmart, we were a bit confused because the layout was different from the one here. So we just walked to the back-left corner (as facing the store) and found that there was an area that looked as if it were under construction, and behind that plastic wall were a collection of cubicles. There were office workers working in the cubicles. I felt like maybe we shouldn't be in that area, so we went out to try to find what we were looking for, but we could not find it. We walked up to the front of the store, where the checkouts were and a large open McDonald's right before the checkouts. I kind of wanted to eat at McDonald's but I didn't say anything, and we went back out to the car.

When we got there, we found that we were unable to leave because a truck was blocking us. Except that the truck was mostly on top of our car. No sign of the owner of the truck. At this point, I tried to figure out what to do. My first thought was to contact the building management (there was a small office building connected to the Walmart, and you had to walk through a corridor to get there). I asked a middle-aged couple if they knew who managed the building and they looked at me like I was crazy. So I walked into the corridor and found a small plate near the floor with the management company's name on it. I noted that down, but then decided it would probably be a better idea to report it to the police.I didn't have the police phone number in Baton Rouge, and I didn't want to call 911. So I looked up the number on my phone and dialed.

The first time I called, I got a business in Connecticut. Apparently the phone number was wrong, or I had misdialed. So I tried again, and this time got the police station, but they were only open to take calls on Tuesdays and Thursdays until 5:30 PM, and it was a weekend and 5:35 PM, so could I call back on Tuesday? I told them no, that we only had one car and I needed it right now. They hung up on me.

AM, at this point, opened the car and sat in it, because it was getting a bit cold outside. When I saw this, I told him to get out of the car, because the weight of the truck on top of it could crush it at any time. He reluctantly got out of the car, but not before getting our guns out of the glove compartment, and handed mine to me. Just in case. I took the gun and put it in my pocket, and tried to call the police back again. This time, no one picked up.

There was more of a crowd at this time, people coming and going. No one seemed to care that there was a truck on top of my car. We decided we wanted to sit down, so climbed up to a grassy area that was half-inside the parking garage, half-outside, and sat against a concrete block. A bit later - perhaps around 7 pm - a yellow truck came into the parking lot, skidded a bit, and landed in a parking space. I told AM that this is probably how our car got in such trouble. Not a minute later, a red truck came in, did the same thing, but toppled over on its side. The owner got out of the truck, swearing, and went over to confront the guy in the yellow truck. A crowd formed around them, and they started fighting. They also had guns. Suddenly we all realized we weren't safe and people started to lie down on the ground. I grabbed AM and we hid behind the concrete block, as low to the ground as possible, which was kind of useless considering we were about 12 feet above where the action was going on. When people started getting up and running for the exit, we decided to do the same thing. We jumped down from the wall and lost ourselves in the crowd. We got through the door, outside the Walmart, and at that point we were safe. But we had left our cell phones on that grassy area, so after the excitement died down, we went back out to the grassy area (from the outside of the Walmart) and picked up our phones, which were still lying there.

I figured no one was going to come fix this problem unless I called 911, so I finally did. The 911 operator sounded bored, and when I told her that there had been an accident and I needed someone to come handle it, she asked if anyone was hurt and I said no, so she told me it wasn't an emergency. Instead of arguing, I hung up the phone and decided to try again, but this time when I called 911 the phone just rang and rang. Finally I did reach someone else, but they couldn't understand what had happened and after all this time - perhaps now it was 9 at night - no one had come to help us. At this point, I realized my gun was missing, but figured it was probably for the best, because if the cops came, I didn't want to have an unlicensed gun on my person, and I didn't know how to shoot it anyway. AM was getting excited about the idea that we would have a rental car that insurance would pay for, and I told him not to give up just yet, that the police would come and fix the problem. I did understand that the car was probably undrivable, but at this point, the police HAD to come. If they didn't, it was a failure on my part.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Bits and Pieces

I have to start writing my dreams down again. I need to remember these things, I know it. Sometimes I don't write them because they are a bit shocking even to myself. But I should still write. Shouldn't I?

Here are a few things I remember:

From the summer, silk sheets and a round blue bed. Negotiations. Superficial beauty and all the things that surround that. What is it that is wanted? Not all that glitters. It is funny how in my dreams and in real life, I end up wanting the same things.

In mid-fall, I found myself writing a novel in my dream. In order to write this novel I had to spend time in a Victorian mansion to find out what it was like. I lived every word of the stories that I wrote, beautiful, historical, romantic. What would life be like after the novel was published?

Last night I dreamt of a large house, perhaps early-mid 20th century, with peaked ceilings of wood and the most beautiful chandeliers, one of which I knocked down with a long metal rod and had to clean it up. It was not my house. AM and RS were still roommates and it was their house. They shared a room that had twin captain beds with navy blue bedspreads. I felt less bad that I had destroyed their chandelier than that I was clumsy.

Everything in my dreams is more sophisticated, more refined, more dark and mysterious, more mahogany, than the life I experience (less orange though, usually.) It is the world of Sherlock Holmes and a thousand mystery novels. It is crystal chandeliers, magnifying glasses, fragrant oils, analog, wood and metal, no plastic, urgent skies, reassuring humidity. It is time to think and to write, no hurrying, conversations of truth and beauty, authenticity, and trust. It is the world I believe in, the one I want to make real. But does reality have time enough for this?