A man is walking through his elegant backyard, which has layers of shrubs and huge stone blocks. He has just finished some chores and is on a paved path. As he nears the end of the path, there is a drop-off. He over-cautiously leans out barely over the edge to see a monorail track. I feel the same dread I would if I were leaning out over an unknown height. I wonder if a train will flash by. He turns back towards the house and his wife, who is in the kitchen. The man casually glances in the direction of the track and sees a large man with long hair under his hat and draping his heavy coat — we don’t see that man’s face. A few steps later, the first man glances again and the other man has moved just as many steps closer. I think, “these are great camera movements.” The subtly sinister music plays on. The man walks around his Jaguar towards the basement door. A different man appears at the door. The first man rushes into the basement and pulls the two sides of the French doors together with all his strength, trying to latch it. Through the gap in the door, we see the other man moving a knife to pry the latch, his angry eyes above the knife. He yanks open the doors as the first man walks backwards through the gloomy room. The angry man closes in on the first man, talking about revenge. The police burst into the room and the lights brighten. The angry man say, “this man drove into my friends and me and left us to die!” Now, we can see the blood, even a bone sticking out of the angry man’s leg.

I think, “the wife can say she never heard the car start.” The dog shakes his head, my furry alarm clock. mjh

A group of men and women is gathered in and around the open bed of a truck. They are not military but of that type. I think of them as “adventurers.” A woman comforts someone hunched over in the truck. Someone approaches with an armful of weapons. These appear to be short swords of an Asian style. The hilts and scabbards are glossy black enamel with hints of embossing or inlay. I think they might be slippery in a bloody battle and wonder if that is the reason for the slight twist in each handle. One of the men takes a sword and unsheathes it to reveal two parallel blades a couple of inches apart. Others are of a similar style until he unsheathes the last one. This one has one blade like all the others but the left blade ends in a gathering of spikes, like the stainless-steel offspring of a pangolin and a porcupine. “What the hell is the point of that?,” he wonders aloud. Another man jumps from the truck and brandishes the weapon, saying, “I’ll tell you the point. When you see a big, hairy arm swinging that at your head, your first thought is to run like hell.”

I awake thinking the words, “The Lanoliers.” I don’t know if that is the name of the weapons, their wielders or this group of adventurers. The collective unconscious of the Web answers with this:

“Members of the Lanoliers must undergo training in both army and naval tactics and given with the [ Kingdom of Ewecadmia’s] recent emergence from isolation, they will be trained in air force specialties….

“Lanolier members who have taken extra classes in Kingdom and World protocol and etiquette, and volunteer may become part of the Royal Rams, that is the King’s Royal Guard. The Rams are responsible for patrolling the grounds of the Royal castle and escorting members of the Royal Family when traveling at home or abroad.” — courtbard.tripod.com/id46.html

I have no recollection of ever encountering this info before. However, the longer I think about this, I start to ‘recall’ (imagine?) I’ve read a poem by Robert Burns called The Lanoliers. I wonder if they use short swords. mjh

PS: I have a recollection of “pangolin” in the context of dinosaurs. I see something rather turtle-like with a spiked tail ala stegosaurus. Here, the Web lets me down (or sets me straight, perhaps) by only showing modern pangolins (pangolina?). Two words (pangolin and lanolier) come out of my head, one with rich context and one with none (except for the dream). One verified, one not.

I was crawling around in some bright space that prevented me from standing up. A radio was playing a motivational speaker who had been breathlessly talking about facing our fears. Someone mentioned the short lives of moths and I thought “we don’t know the fate of every moth — there must be some that live longer than others and they would pass that longevity on to their descendants.” I crawled forward and found myself stuck like in a rose bush. I crawled backwards and tore myself free from this minor trap. Now I realized that I was in an area deep with dried leaves almost over my head. “Well,” I thought, “at least I came prepared,” thinking of my long sleeves and pants. As I struggled, the leaves around me settled and in front of me the upper part of a reclining body was revealed: it was the skull and upper torso of a mummified or dessicated person only shiny brown like leather or jerky. I knew I was in trouble and woke up. mjh

We’re standing in a line to get on a bus. When Merri speaks, I know she is speaking about Britany Spears; she says, “I wonder where Miss Bitch goes for the week and a half.” Continue reading Dreams mjh