I had a strange dream last night:
1915.  Early summer in Europe must look more beautiful than this.  Far off in the distance, bright yellow sunlight blankets the hills, however, here by my brother and I, it is dark overhead and the thick, potent smell of a bog permeates the fog that covers the ground–everything is tinted in a muddy green color.  We shoulder ourselves against large, colorless boulders for shelter and wait; you can almost hear the air crackle with tension.  I look down at the ground, brushing aside some dead grass and a glow catches my eye.  A quick whistle from my teeth brings my brother over and everything turns black and white.  Pictures form in the glowing object; tanks rolling through the country on the outskirts of a city, massive buildings still in flames, their white pillars turned black from soot & smoke, and a sequence that moves too fast for me to comprehend aside from noting a crescent moon and swastika in the confusion. 

My brother and I stare at each other; he holds up his index finger and I hold up my index & middle finger, both gestures symbolizing world war I and II.  The first war has ended and we have just entered the second.  Within the glow, a swastika forms again, absorbing it until no light is left.  The symbol then forms into the number  “70” and then into the head of an eagle, resting atop a shield.  It vanishes and an eagle flies overhead; we follow it s flight path to a glass box of a house a few miles ahead.  It looks about a quarter mile away from a river bank and I ask my brother how we can utilize the energy of the trees hanging over it.

Slowly, we approach the river bank, everything is in color again.  To the left is the glass house, no walls, with a man sitting in a throne-like chair in the center, motionless.  As we continue forward along the water, the ground begins to shift, slowly pulling a 180 degree turn; the house is further ahead of us now.  We walk toward where the glow had been coming from earlier, a handful of soldiers walking with my brother and I, carrying towers of ceramic dinner plates.  Without warning, a few of them break at the base, sending all of the other ones crashing to the ground in slow motion.  I quickly signal at the troops with me and we all dive further into the water, which is waist deep and has tall, dry grass growing up from the mud.

The man in the glass house stands up, walks through the glass and floats over to our location.  He opens his mouth to speak and wheat bushels grow out from his tongue and his eyes tint bright green.  He says that he cannot grow anything on his farm because of the war, that he is forbidden from feeding us.  I slowly rise from the water, making eye contact with him, planning on an attempt at negotiation.  The droplets fall from my hat in a slow drip.  His eyes narrow in on me, causing my eyes to fill with blue fire.  I grab the wheat from his mouth, telling him that he can do as he wishes, as it is his farm, and we are hungry.  Agitated, he steals the wheat back from me, balancing it on his palm and it turns to ash.  He tells me that my soldiers, brother and I have little understanding of what is happening and what the war is about.  I disagree with him, stating the specifics of what fueled the war and the desperation of Europe, causing him to close his eyes and point to the middle of the river.  My soldiers are out there, dead, in a heap.  My brother puts his hand on my shoulder and matter-of-factly states, “We will not die”.  Everything cuts to black.  I wake up.

I had a strange dream last night:

I cannot tell if the sun is rising or setting early. Either way, I’ve never seen such a blend of contrasting pastels around the sun. To my left is a fenced in area with bleachers packed to bursting with spectators. I walk onto what I assumed was the stage, but it was unlike one I had ever seen. It was like an elongated hill–a curved rectangle that sloped downward on the front and back. Two great square, red walls anchored each side. I walked to the center and looked behind me at the sun. Light blues swirled with pastel orange, pink, and golden yellow but never mixed. The sun was beating like a heart, becoming brighter each time it expanded, and dimmer each time it contracted.

Every time I walked the length of the stage, everyone cheered; there must have been tens of thousands of people in the bleachers. I felt like I was auditioning for something but I had already gotten it, due to the condition of the sky. After the sixth time, water oozed onto the stage area. It covered the ground slowly at first but with every surge it rose a little higher, getting my shoes wet and causing me to curse at it. The sound of rushing water filled my ears and the water rose to my waist, but was not touching me, only the splashes of the crashing waves splashed small amounts onto my clothing. I quickly walked to the right end of the stage and as I reached the ground below, I looked behind me and saw Coldplay coming out from behind the red wall and out on the stage, to the cheers of everybody. I ran toward the first fence and hopped it, worried that everyone would see me, and then did the same for the second fence until I reached the parking lot. I opened my car door and hit the car next to me. The black window rolled down and the man in the drivers seat told me not to worry about it. I woke up.

I had a strange dream last night:

I roll over and grope my cordless box thing I use to make phone calls. 10:46 am. Shit. I am late for work. I stare at the phone a bit longer and the following appears on the screen: “10:46 am. Shit. I am late for work.” Apparently I have a super power of some kind involving a deep telepathic bond with cell phones. After backflipping out of bed into a set of 10 jumping jacks while giving myself my usual “Your job NEEDS you!” pep talk, a pep talk that is completely untrue, I run down the stairs and out the door to my…….bicycle? Where the hell is my car? It’s my dream and I demand an Infiniti G35!

The sun is at high morning posture, a yoga position that it is in the process of patenting. I am at 54 Dover Road, my childhood house. The day is crisp & mild with a slight breeze to break up the monotony of perfect. The sound of a jackhammer, a bobcat, and other construction monsters cut through the serene aura of birds chirping. I roll my eyes at the tactlessness of the construction cult for working so early in the morning (to those of us that don’t wake until noon) and notice that my bike has gone missing. I approach the construction worker and over the sound of the jackhammer jacking, yelling like an obnoxious American tourist at a foreigner in their home country, demand to speak with their supervisor. The yellow hat-wearing worker (who has a handsome late 80’s mustache) points into the garage. As I near the supervisor, I see my bike stuck between two planks of boundary wood in a garden. I rip my bike out with some effort and hop on.

Not long into my ride, I notice that the handbrakes are missing. Not only the handbrakes, but the wire that connects them to the brakes, the chain and….the tires. How I managed to ride a bike with no tires is something that would take another whole sentence to explain. I refuse to do that. I clamorously drag my bicycle to the house having the work done on its front yard and right before yelling at the men working, I look up in the sky and see 2 dots on the edge of a cloud. I peer closer at it and everything goes dark for a split second, making me feel like I have been knocked off my feet.

When I open my eyes, I am up in the sky with my girlfriend, whose code name will be “bandia”, which is Gaelic for “goddess”. She and I are debating who would win in a fight: The god of fire, or the god of water. She sides with the Matchbox 20 wannabe and I vouch for the wrath of a thousand squirt guns. They both look like Zeus to me. We look down onto the land beneath us and take in a beautiful sight: 2 temples rise from the beautiful, square pools that remind me of the rectangular one at the Taj Mahal. The one belonging to the flamer is surrounded in pyroclast and steam, its foundation stained in soot. The other temple is surrounded in a rushing torrent of water and an aura of mist. The battle ensues.

By the end of it, the god of water lay dead on the ground, his body still sizzling, charred, and broken, his trident still in his hand. Codename “bandia” starts giving me crap for being wrong and so I hold up my hand and tell her I will be right back. I focus on the god of fire and scream through the sky, landing on my feet next to the god of water with a loud boom. I take the trident from his hand, offended by the smell of burning flesh and fresh blood and aim it at the god of fire, who is too busy standing proudly with his chest out on his temple steps to notice me. I take aim and throw the trident at him and it makes contact, piercing his chest and going through his back; his heart sticking to the two inner pikes. A look of shock crosses over his face and he clumsily stumbles down the steps, taking his last breath before landing on his face. I look back up in the sky at codename bandia and laugh a little, yelling up to her, “I guess that makes me the god now!” I wake up.