My Dreams Project a Real Connection

They always have.  The more I let go and fall into my dreams with understanding and recall technique, the more I can feel the power force sparking them.  I feel like I am at the start of understanding the cause driving my dreams.  There is a long way to go and that is just the beginning. 

A few weeks ago we made a surprise visit to the Haywood County North Carolina homestead of St. Lissa's biological daddy, whom I had only met twice prior.  As we turned into the drive on Rich Cove Mountain, Johnny was sweeping the leaves off of the front porch of the house that he was born in and as he openly confesses, will one day die in.  As soon as he saw his daughter, he leaned the old fashioned broom against a rocking chair and embraced her like only a father could.  We were welcomed into his mountain home as if he had known all of us for a lifetime.

Dream, the ultimate voyage of a resting brain perhaps infinitely more powerful than when it is awake trying to keep all cognitive systems going on this spinning chunk of rock.  They keep coming and now the dimension of time is making its presence seen visual and felt along with all of the other sensory receptors.  This morning in dream I looked at the clock that is next to my bed, it read 0615hrs in bright red linear numerals.  Thinking came to me as I dream slept and slept a dream.  It is later than 0615hrs Boot, wake up, you are about to be late and out in the 18F without warm breakfast.  Was there a sound, I could not be sure, but from sleep dream sleeping to the actual and the same clock in front of me clearly showed that it was 0715hrs.  Moving translates to an active half pint of oats, honey and a rotten banana on the outside only.  Then the cold reality of feet hurting under prepared for the 19mph wind chill constant off of the 18F drained the process of getting in on commute. Moving through it created a heat rip away that tries hard to slow my continual forward pedaling.  Maybe shins exposed under an insulated covered knee was a bad idea, however half way in is a serious commitment as far as my work schedule goes.  Ignore the cold dead wood like feeling of the skin under your left toes and foot, your exposure only has fifteen minutes left and that will surely not cause damage that wouldn't be fixed with a warm cup of coffee after you drop the mails. 

Even though I ran around and backtracked a bit, my day brought a slower result at work than the average. We all know that a pattern is hard to predict in this industry.  Early in the afternoon I wound up in a comfy chair across from Swazey who was desperately trying to get me to drink the rest of his java poison so that I could go get 'us' a refill.  There wasn't much to talk about, I was warm and he was distracted by the trials of running the business that he proudly owns.  My head started bobbing, my eyelids closed and fluttered.  It was easy, I gave in by leaning back into the chair with my photochromic lenses slightly veiling my eyes.

Gone.  Truly right away into another dream unidentified dimensional tap in of me arriving by bicycle to the rural Maynard Hill that I grew up on.  This place holds tons of magic in my mind and I have not really lived there for over 23 years.  I came over the hill and down on my white Zurich with a front bag on filled with little warm ham sandwiches wrapped individually in aluminum foil.  It was day light and the grass was Nikon green under a blue cloudless sky.  People that I did not recognize were standing in the road at the driveway as I slowed to a crawl and turned in as if ever was this my home.  Were they Tifosi, I mean I had just finished a ride that covered over 700 miles, maybe they were there to receive me even though I never told anyone I was coming. 

Looking up into the garage I knew that something was night right, it was not what I remembered as truth at all.  The rest of the dream is a blur, a fast paced walk through of a physical place that had changed so many times and so dramatically that it was unrecognizable as actually connected to me on the real level.  People that I did not know were spending cozy time by their fireplace on a country road in Brooklyn.  They were not mean to me, however they were annoyingly curious as to where I came from and what was I doing there. In dream land there feels no desire, want, need, hunger or thirst for that matter as I walked through on down the hall towards my old bedroom.  The unfamiliar occupants of the shell of my childhood home started asking me redundant questions about nothing.  I tried to ignore their watered down intellect all the while paying attention to the new wood work carpentry details on the inside that I had never seen before.  Just as I felt my pajama bottomed feet slipping the way they used to, I was jolted awake into the conscious now by a firm tug on my left sleeve.

It was Swazey's voice that I heard as I left the entrance to my old room from my bonding years, "Excuse me, Mr. Homeless person, there is no sleeping allowed in here."  Bastard.  Only several minutes had passed before I started to lightly snore which compelled Swazey to take charge.  There is something missing though, something that I did not see while trying to tap one of those other unknown dimensions of a conscious but not conscious state.  That was the second time that I have dream rode to my old home, the house I remember in the past two weeks.  Synchronicity is at work in my cortex but it has not yet manifested the physical connection.  Does that make any sense?  Prolly not, so don't worry about it because it is all mine to feel and be able to express as if I knew what I were talking about.