Mid-March Madness Dreams

No, not basketball. Just, weirdness. . .  .

We are in the physics lab. Before we have a chance to do much of anything, a scuffle breaks out in the hall.  I run outside to deal with it. Before I know it, I am in front of a history class–and, um, I’m naked. No one seems to mind, but when someone comes to the door, I sit down behind the computer console so that they can’t see me.  Someone has conveniently left the laundry there, and I pull on a khaki skirt and a brown cami.

Then I am in a meeting that is taking place in a limo.  We are all fighting.  I say, “I have nothing to hide. Let’s have the vote.” I don’t know if we actually do vote or not, because next thing I know, I am getting out of the car.

As I am walking  back to the lab to get back to you, I see a very large construction worker on his back on the sidewalk.  The paramedics had cracked open his chest and had done heart massage and then gave up on him.  I bend down and put my hands in his chest on his heart, and the energy starts flowing though my hands, and his heart starts beating again.  Then I chew out the paramedics; why the fuck didn’t they use the paddles? Stupid. Now I’m all messy. Are you going to be upset with me? I couldn’t just leave the guy to die.

In a tiny narrow cell, there is a monster. It looks like a cross between Frankenstein’s monster and the gingerbread people from that dream last year (see fifth dream).  He is so big and the cell is so tiny that he has to stand diagonally.  His eyes are so very sad. I feel bad for him and try to break him out.  I get him out of the cell but then I hear people coming.  I throw him on a couch with a bunch of coats over him (the room is a mess with clothes and papers everywhere) and lounge against them. A girl comes in and sees the cell is open–she runs out and I grab the monster and try to get him out through the door.

Then I am at the Greens’  house from Jericho and Eric is for some reason dancing through the kitchen doing jazz hands. There are several packages of meat on the table, and Ma Green is wrapping them in a fleece blanket to keep them cold, but wouldn’t that make them warm instead?

Then I am at an airport to catch a flight.  I’ve given a girl a ride. She has her check out papers from the hotel, but I don’t have mine. I don’t remember if I even went through check out! I am trying to talk to the service rep. It is Greg Gumbel. He is talking nonsense, and I can’t get a coherent answer out of him.

So I decide to go back to the hotel and double check.  I go to the service desk–and it is Greg Gumbel again.  He is making more sense now, but he tells me a copy of my receipt is going to cost me $50. I tell him like hell it is, and I go to the manager and complain. She says she’ll print me a copy.  As she pulls it up on the computer, it pops up on a screen on the wall behind her. I’m pissed because I’m afraid someone will see my account information and steal it. As I look at it, I notice there is a watermark on the page and it is the Blue Gillespie eye.

 

Past Life #2

A Nightmare

Sunday Morning

I see you sitting at a desk. Your back is to me. You are in a suit, but it’s not a contemporary suit—it’s Victorian era. I think at first maybe this is a bit of fun after this weekend and the cape. But I realize it’s not play from the surroundings. You are typing away at a computer. A computer? Everything else is 19th century except the computer, a glaring anachronism. Time travel perhaps? An elaborate Steampunk scene?

I am standing in a doorway and watching you. Although you are across the room from me, I can see what is on the screen. It’s as if it is in close up. I see each letter as you type. Oddly, the letters are in blue.

i
l
o
v
e
y
o
u

You pause at the u, then put a period. But the period isn’t a period, it’s a heart.

♥

Your back is still turned to me, but I can hear you say the words to me in my head, I love you. There is sadness and regret in the words, as if you know, somehow. . .

Out of nowhere a man appears. He has something in his hand, a pipe? a bat? Without even looking up from the screen, you raise your left hand. There is a length of pipe in it; you block the man. It’s as if you know what he is going to do before he does it.

I hear you again in my head: The baby.

The baby. Oh god.

I know you know in your head you are going to die. Again. And the baby is in jeopardy. Again.

I dash into the adjoining room. It is a nursery. I run to put my body between the crib and the door, turn just in time to see the man pull a gun.

There is a shot. I cannot look.

When I turn back to the doorway, you are bleeding out on the floor. The man is standing over you. But, somehow, he is draining your energy from you as you die and is shapeshifting into you.

No, it’s not shapeshifting. It’s not like us. We don’t use others’ energies to change. We transform within ourselves. This, this is some sort of parasite.

It turns to look at me. It looks like you now, but it isn’t you. It has dead eyes. No, it has empty eyes. There is no soul. It is a thing, a container.

You are dead on the floor.

I turn and grab the baby, but before I can pick her up, it is on me. Now it has a knife and it stabs me. I’ll be with you soon. I see another one come across the threshold. It is blurry, but as it crosses over, it starts to transform. It looks like the woman you told me to let go in the vision in July. It looks like me, in a long day dress with an apron over it.

The thing that stole your face gloats as I fall to the floor. The thing that stole my face picks up the baby.

We will take the child and turn her to evil the thing that stole your face crows like some scenery-chewing villain in a bad melodrama.

I look it in the eyes and with my last breath I say with utter knowledge and conviction: “No. No, you won’t.”

And then I wake up.

*************************************************************************************************************

The dream perplexes me. I understand now why you did not want to tell me details of what happened. It is yet another lifetime when I lost you and a child. I have had so much difficulty letting go the other lifetime that you didn’t want me to fixate on this one.

Oddly enough, as this was happening, I was calmly detached.

Unlike that other lifetime, which until recently ignited such rage and despair in me, this time it was as if I was watching a movie while still being in the movie. I felt little myself, only the love and the regret that you were projecting to me and that I was sending back to you. I did not feel the knife. I did not feel myself die.

But I do remember the utter certainty and conviction behind my statement that they would fail in their efforts to corrupt our child.

Maybe through the lens of a later lifetime, I already knew how it would turn out. Maybe I already knew what happened to her.

Or maybe, having trusted you in July, having cut the cord to that life without having to know what happened, I could release it without the drama. Maybe the only reason I saw it at all was to show me now how painless it could be to release all of this I’ve been hanging on to if I could just trust.

It’s hard to trust in something you can’t see, some abstraction: faith hope god.

But I’m finding it easier to trust in you.

You had my best interest at heart. In this lifetime and that one. You gave your life willingly for us. And then you hid the specifics from present-me, to protect me from further hurt. You were a true hero.

God, I love you.

And now, because I can look at this in a detached manner, it becomes a puzzle to solve rather than a wound to heal. There’s a pattern here, beyond the pattern of us losing each other again and again. You remember lifetimes when I died; I remember ones where you died. In most of them, a child is involved.

As I lie in bed and try to figure this out, the first impression I have is of the Potters battling Voldemort over Harry’s crib. But that’s not quite it. Voldemort wanted them dead. Harry’s living was a surprise. These, things, whatever they were, wanted the child.

Then I think of Piper and Leo from Charmed trying to save Wyatt from being turned evil. That makes more sense. But there have been three lifetimes where we have died and children have been involved. What is so special about our children that these things would either want to steal them or to destroy them?

Another mystery. Maybe you know the answer to that and you’re still protecting me. You’ve told me before that I don’t remember all of that first lifetime, that things weren’t what they seemed. If I’m not meant to know, so be it. I trust you.

***************************************************************************************************************

I am channel surfing after dinner. An episode of Charmed is playing. A demon is standing over Wyatt’s crib, trying to coax from him his teddy bear. He wants to infect the bear with evil, to turn Wyatt evil. I’ve never seen this episode before. It’s after Chris died, and I stopped watching after Chris died. The parallels with the dream are startling. I muse at the timing.

The synchronicities and confirmations are arriving fast and furious. Whatever it is that is supposed to happen, we must nearly be there.

Two Weird Dreams

I had two strange dreams last night: one played out like an episode of Torchwood, which is always weird when that happens, and the other had GDL make an appearance, which was weird as well.