The other night I had a myriad of interesting dreams, which were good enough to share despite the fact that I can’t remember their entire scenarios.  The first few flowed together and were related, even though I woke up between them.

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I’m driving in a really old car that I’ve just purchased, which is a 1960 Pontiac Trans Am.  There’s no such thing in real life; in fact, it looked like this (but more run down). . .

. . .which is a 1961 Cadillac Coupe DeVille.  How did I know what it was?  Because A) it was a dream, and sometimes you just know these things, and B) on the floor of the passenger side, embedded in the salmon-colored carpet, was a small black metal plate embossed with the words ‘Trans Am’, which looked a lot like those miniature license plates that kids put on their bicycles.

So I’m driving around in this gigantic car, and I decide to take a road trip to Seattle to test the thing out.  I leave Portland and drive up the freeway for a while, getting used to the car all the way.  I’m enjoying the novelty and comfort of it, but I keep ruminating on things, like the fact that it’s easily twice as big as anything I’ve ever driven before, and that it can only go for a few miles on a gallon of gasoline.  The dream’s location changes, and I find myself driving a few miles south of Seattle, near the airport, where the steampunk convention took place.  I recognize the hotels and streets and everything, but this time I notice that there’s a new Elliott Smith museum, so I decide to turn into the parking lot and check it out.  It takes me a while to park the behemoth, and I opt for a spot near the far end of the parking lot. I close the door and survey the car, making sure that everything seems to be working correctly.  Everything does, so I walk into the museum.

I don’t see anything about Elliott Smith, but I do see lots of antique clothing and miscellaneous other things.  I see a section of mens’ overcoats, and I’m intrigued by a blue one that looks like it was from the early 1920’s, which I try on.  It fits me perfectly, but I decide not to buy it since I don’t know if this trip will cause my car to need any repairs.  I leave the museum and walk back to the car.

The dream’s location changes again, and I’m now driving on a bridge between downtown Seattle and a very small, rustic island a short distance offshore in Puget Sound.  (For those of you readers who live elsewhere in the world, this is not a place that exists in real life.)  Dad and Brother are renting a house for the weekend, so that the three of us can have a relaxing getaway together.  (For those of you readers who live elsewhere in the world, this is not a thing that happens in real life.)  I get to the end of the bridge and see a yellow road sign with divergent arrows that recommends drivers stay at twenty miles per hour.  The sign is at the intersection, though, so I have to stomp on the brakes, skid, and back up in order to make the turn.  Clearly, this is a place that doesn’t get many visitors, despite its proximity to Seattle.

I make the sharp left turn onto the narrow road that travels the perimeter of the island (in fact, it’s the island’s only road) and pull into the driveway of a somewhat dilapidated barn next to a farmhouse.  I park the car inside the barn, and Dad and Brother walk out of the house to greet me.  They look at the car and ask me how the trip went.  “Well,” I tell them, “if I’d known what this little island was like, I’d have brought my motorcycle instead, and done a bit of exploring.”  I also have a vintage motorcycle, and since my so-called Trans Am is too huge for the road on this island, I’m really wishing I had the alternative.  We walk into the farmhouse and they tell me that dinner – an egg dish of some sort, similar to a Benedict – is ready to be served.

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The second dream is much shorter.  I’m a ghost hunter, and I’m walking in a hall and a downward staircase in a medieval castle in Germany.  I’m wearing a bodysuit that makes me invisible, and I’m also wearing goggles that allow me to track ghosts in the castle, if there are any.  The goggles give a gray, pixellated view of my surroundings, and if a ghost is present, the word ‘ID’ appears on the screen.  (I should probably clarify that ‘ID’ refers to identification, not the part of the brain.)  I’m also wearing headphones that allow me to hear what the ghosts say, should they wish to communicate with me.  As I turn and walk down the curved staircase, a flurry of ID’s appears on the screen.  There is a huge group of ghosts coming up the stairs toward me.  I stop walking and stand motionless, a few steps from the top.

“I can see you,” I say.

A voice speaks in my headphones.  “No. . .you can’t.  That’s ridiculous.”

A ghost appears in front of me; a tall young guy in his mid-twenties, dressed in the style of a punk rocker.  His name is emblazoned on the front of his shirt.

“Yes, I can. . .Derek?”

He is visibly taken aback.  I tell him I can show him who I am, too, and at this moment I realize that in this dream I am female.  I can control the invisibility suit to reveal as much or as little of myself as I choose, so I start with my arms.  I reveal my right arm first, and then my left, which are very skinny and appear in the air before him.  I then reveal my face and head to him, and I shake my long blond hair free.  He seems to trust me, and he gives a signal to the other ghosts in the stairway behind him to materialize, which they do.  There are more than I can possibly count, but this doesn’t make me uncomfortable or frightened at all.

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There, you see?  Well worth sharing, even though there was much more to these dreams than I’m able to recall.  That was a good night.  As usual, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that tonight will be just as eventful.