Writingbolt's Creation

Wednesday January 11, 2023

A doozie of a dream in three parts!

Part 1

It’s an odd spooky-mystery-comedy movie with a guy that looks like Jack Lemmon as the protagonist, who seems troubled by some spook in his apartment. The spook somehow becomes attached to the blonde woman he likes, who is with him at the apartment, and she starts acting strangely violent and creepy. He gets her to leave with him, for some reason, takes something like a voodoo doll or carved hunk of wood…or a large plant root? out of her purse before they go and leaves it on a table/countertop. Shortly after the couple goes out on some sort of dinner date, they return, and only “Jack” enters to find the apartment going batty with some sort of raised bumps on the floor, broken floor tiles and things flying across the room. He grabs an oversized, cartoon-like fire axe (with a red handle the size of a broomstick and a wedge blade as big as a large pizza box) and swings it down onto something (I assume whatever he took out of the woman’s purse and left in the apartment) before falling on his butt. The chaos in the apartment quickly ends. Two older men in trench coats, one stout, one skinny, enter and congratulate “Jack” on defeating the spook. The stout one says, “It’s a good thing she left it here.”

The End?

[Now, I have no idea what prompted that dream portion, considering I haven’t watched any old BnW movies in a while…at least a week. And, even then, I didn’t sit through the whole movie. I haven’t seen anything with Jack Lemmon in probably a year or more. And, why the ghost story?]

Part 2

In my attempt to get more resolution to the previous story…as in what happens with the date/girlfriend after “Jack” defeats the spook?…

One layer of dream peels away to reveal another…

I find myself sitting outside in some sort of verdant, very green, very grassy, very breezy Greek-like theater, as if an ancient ruin has been covered with plants. I’m in what I presume is the highest row of seats, at the back, looking down at empty rows of stone slabs draped in plants. I feel the chill of shade coming from a large wall (or cliff) at my back, which extends about two rows ahead of me. Beyond the darkness, my eyes adjust upon a startling sight, a massive, white Buddha-like figure sitting with his legs crossed at the lowest point in the theater, a large grassy clearing basking in daylight. His head is topped with an equally massive headdress which is the same pale color as his stone-like skin. He looks like a plump, almost naked, Native-American chief, with just a simple cloth to hide his “man parts” and an ornate (Mayan or Incan) stone fan for a crown. The entire figure is “garnished” with leafy plants, like the stone seats. The stone giant waves his big hands (as if offering a gift) and mutters what sound like kind words to tiny figures in odd robes who come to speak with him, worshippers (or ants he could easily squash with one of his hands if he turned angry).

I recover remotely from the shock of the sight and shift my eyes to a grassy slope to my right, beyond the rows of stone seats. There are a few more robed figures walking aimlessly around the lawn. They look like extras from an episode of Stargate SG-1. Their robes are heavy, gray-ish shades layered and topped with a wrap that chokes the head. The neck wrap is adorned with oblong gemstones which resemble the giant’s skin, littered with black lines like marble.

I decide this is all too weird and that I have to get away before something bad happens. But, as I turn to flee, I detect one of the robbed figures about to grab me, as I grab what I think is a hood to cover my shivering neck and head. He says, “Sir? You’re ruining your stones.” [Or, something like that. Maybe “You’re misaligning your stones.”] He stops me, and I glance at his face from the corner of one cautious eye, wary he might try to hypnotize or drug me (and I may have to defend myself). He looks and sounds like the Asian guy who took over Mr. Hooper’s store on Sesame Street, slightly shorter than me, stout, balding black hair on a round moon-like face, another Buddha with small ears and some hair. And, I can tell his skin is powdered white, like the giant (like those brainwashed servants of a higher power on Stargate SG-1). He proceeds to adjust my clothing, and I quickly realize I am wearing the same robes…with the white stones along my collarbone.

Now, even more unsettled, I break away from the guy and calmly but hastily start storming toward what appears to be a tall wall of hedges with no view of what’s beyond and two robed men standing guard with spears. I see a narrow exit space and decide that’s where I am headed. ‘Time to get out of this nightmare before I’m brainwashed.

[But, that’s as far as I get before the dream breaks.]

[Again, I want more resolution. I look at the clock and see I’ve only been asleep for about 4-5 hours. Try again.]

Part 3

I find myself sitting on some sort of low wheeled cart, rolling down a wooden corridor in some sort of tavern/restaurant/inn. There are two rather spacious and open rooms on the right which are dark and unoccupied. On the left, I pass one room which contains a group of people gathered around a table. Each person is wearing some sort of odd costume. One, a man, looks like a character from the 1980s He-Man cartoons, with a distinctly familiar chest plate bearing a glowing “E” laying on its back (with the points pointing up)…Exodus? Another, a woman, has either green or purple hair in a tangled mess, like a bad wig, and looks like a bounty hunter or assassin as she raises a long boot and stomps on the seat of a wooden chair, as if to say she’s “top dog” in the joint. [I think she’s wearing a cowgirl hat?] There seems to be a competition brewing among the lot; they may be engaged in some sort of card game. [A pirate-infested poker scene, perhaps.]

I roll past this scene and see the next room is much more quiet and would be empty if there wasn’t one older man reading a book by a floor lamp. I don’t get a good look at this other room before my eyes shift to the right, noticing daylight streaming through a window at the back of a young woman sitting by a cash register. I can only make out a hint of her face and hair. The rest is a delicate silhouette and a posture which suggests disinterest in…everything. I assume she will mumble something unkind to me and continue distracting herself with a cellphone.

I become more aware of the cart that rolls me down the aisle. It’s a sort of childish metal wagon covered in pillows and blankets, the sort I would have sat in as a kid, with my mother pulling the black metal handle. I decide I don’t want to hear the young woman grumble and pretend to fall asleep in the wagon. Closing my eyes, I lay back and roll forward until I hear the strange, faint sounds of voices mixing.

The young woman and a female friend are now standing in front of the wagon, leaning over me and talking about me as if concerned for my health. They say something about the crusting of my eyes. One reaches up to thumb my eyelids. I like the sound of their voices and picture how pretty they must be; one has chin-length black hair cupping her face, and the other has, probably, shoulder-length black hair pinned back with one of those spring-loaded hair clamps. Trying not to startle them by suddenly “waking” and spoiling my “act,” I carefully reach up with one hand and touch the palm of the woman examining my eyes, as if I am moving in my sleep. I can feel the softness of and the lines in her skin. She gasps. [It’s a supernatural miracle; the sleeping stranger is interacting with her, bonding with her. He likes her. And, she cares for him (with blushing cheeks).]

Suddenly, there is an odd shift in atmosphere, and the next voice I hear does not come from a young Asian woman. It’s a deeper, slightly hoarse voice, the voice of an older woman who is carrying some…er, weight and is definitely not delicate. The other new woman, to my right, says something about me which is a blur…but she sounds oddly intrigued, possibly excited.

I crack my acting eyes open to see I’ve moved into a sort of department store. I’m sitting in front of two older women in ragged but silky clothing; they resemble two schoolteachers or secretaries I might have seen in a movie from the 1980s. The one on the left has frazzled brown hair pinned back in a crappy mess. I see her prominent nose (and frown a bit) and generous cracked lips but not her eyes. Her blouse is dark and flowery. The woman on the right has lighter hair, possibly strawberry blonde, and large round eyeglasses; she faintly resembles Jane Fonda’s character from the movie Nine to Five. Her blouse is a solid, dark golden color, similar to the metal that frames her eyes.

As the two women go on talking and examining me, I realize I’m still touching the hand of the woman on the left…who was supposed to be a delicate Asian beauty with short dark hair and a kind voice. The skin in my hand is like soft leather; I can feel every line.

One of the women says, “His hands are so small. That could be a problem.”

Inclined to direct their attention to my size-twelve feet (and say there is no problem with this guy…ha!), I try to think of a way to change the subject without breaking my act, without waking and spoiling the scene. I try to lift my right foot. Somehow, my raised hand shifts away from the hand I was holding and presses against what feels like a clothed breast (as the woman on the left decides to stand up or shift positions in some other way), and I can tell the woman is well endowed. [‘No problem there. But, why isn’t she alarmed when I cup her breast?! Does she *want* me to grab her?] I feel her hot breath on my face. [Is she studying my scalp?]

I continue to hold the hot sack of flesh until a masculine voice rattles my bones. [No. The woman did not turn into a man.] Someone else has entered the scene, a couple of other people, including a stout older man who seems to be related to one of the women…her father? He sits across from me, in a big recliner, next to an elderly woman. There is discussion about how I might “be the one.”

Then another man appears to my left, brooding and firing agitated steam from his nostrils, possibly an acquaintance or love interest of the women examining me. He sounds like an actor I know…Martin something…Mull? I can tell he’s wearing round glasses and has a brush-like mustache. The man interacts with the women and continues to throw glances at me, as if he’s a doctor assessing my condition. He says he’s going to get something to revive me.

The women help me to my feet. I enhance my act by letting myself go limp and relying upon them to hold me up. We move a short distance across the salesfloor, passing the man in the chair. Then, suddenly, we stop. Someone else has appeared to my left.

I crack my eyes open to see my own father looking as he typically does when he comes to take me away from any meeting with people outside the family. [I’m an adult child being picked up by his father.] Any pleasure that might have come from this scene suddenly drains away. It’s over. Strike the set. A lame ending to this play. No one needs to revive me. I see the coat in his hands. It’s time to leave and go…home?

[And, I wake.]