Dreams of Scandinavia

JWise Dreams, Travels

Norwegian hot dogs a.k.a., Pølse

Two weeks since we left Europe, and not an evening has gone by yet where Caroline and I haven’t been retracing or reinterpreting our vacation in Scandinavia through dreams. Sometimes, our travels while sleeping are strange tasks that require working through labyrinths of peculiar constructs taken from fragments of something our minds have assigned to a hybridized version of a place. Still, there’s no mistaking that they are created from elements of Denmark, Sweden, Norway, or a combination of all three.

On one hand, it’s great that our brains are still processing our trip of a million impressions but at other times, the nocturnal chores being performed in our skulls become disruptive of finding a relaxing sleep. I feel that we are likely contributing to these repetitions of experiences and creating new ones because, after two weeks of being home, I’m working on the 6th day of our trip at this point, with 22 more days still to go. The idea that I will likely have another month and a half of writing and processing photos ahead of me means that Caroline and I will continue to be immersed in our memories of Scandinavia and enrich our dreams with the intensity of processing the experiences during our waking hours.

Two more weeks later, in the middle of October and a full month after our return, our dreams are still dwelling in Sweden. Repetitive pattern matching with maps and objects from Stockholm accompany my sleep just as waking thoughts of our travels guide my blog posts. I wonder if our dreams will shift to Norway in the next couple of days as I start documenting our time in Oslo and beyond.

Sixty days of writing about a nearly 30-day trip had the effect of keeping the two of us deeply immersed in the details of our lengthy vacation on an almost constant basis. Subsequently, we took it all to sleep. Waking over these months was to fragments of travels I believe we both hope are the work of cementing the beautiful moments we shared into our experiential memory in order to never forget another perfect vacation.

As for the photo, nothing says dreams like thoughts of Norwegian hot dogs, a.k.a. Pølser.

Death Mystery

JWise Dreams

Death or Dismemberment Sign

Woken by the terror of being exposed for a transgression I might have committed 40 years ago, that’s how this dream ended, or did it? The interesting thing about this brain in my head is that although my waking mind might want to escape a nightmare, the brain has other ideas and insists on continuing the journey of working out what it was processing prior to me stepping out of bed and finding enough wakefulness that returning to the stress of what was being dreamt is over.

I was racing through the panic that something that should remain hidden was going to be uncovered, and somehow, I knew that I’d be implicated in what was unfolding. A mysterious round spot of concrete floor had drawn the attention of new residents of my childhood home, “What is underneath that?” Why should I even know, let alone feel some sense of guilt, about this discovery? Maybe it’s because my brain had already foreshadowed that I’d be the likely suspect due to circumstances that would become evident once things were revealed.

So, with ugly anticipation, I stood by in fear as the thick slab of concrete was broken up. Once a small corner has been opened and I’m recognizing what is about to be revealed, a skeleton is coming into view. Immediately, I recognize the clothes and am drawn into dread that the signs are pointing right at me: I killed this woman and buried her in my childhood backyard. I need to escape and run away from the universe that is about to close in on me! At this moment, I wake up, hoping that a trip to the bathroom will put sufficient distance between me and this horror so that I won’t have to continue the experience. I was wrong.

Who was the woman buried under this slab that has entombed her for the past four decades? Why and how would I have murdered someone and then buried her at the very home in which I had grown up instead of somewhere far away? Dreams move in peculiar ways, and before law enforcement is involved, I watch a news broadcast that shows an old photograph from 40 years ago featuring the woman and the unidentified man with whom she was last seen; it was me. I knew that there’d be no escape.

There must be some hint of memory of how this happened and why, but I can’t find anything. Surely, I’m doomed, and I’m trapped in this restless dream I desperately want to end. First, though, I must figure out why and how I’m implicated in something I don’t seem to know anything about. My conclusion is that based on me in the photo, I must have been between 18 and 20. The first clue explaining things comes to mind: these were the years I was in the throes of drug and alcohol abuse when, more than a few times, I had walked through days in total blackouts. Okay, I can’t find a memory of this, as I was likely so high or drunk that the situation was wiped from my mind.

The next clue that knocked at these non-obvious memories was, “Why did I bury her at my childhood home?” Hey, wait, I wasn’t even living there during the worst of my self-abuse. Be that as it may, maybe I did it because I couldn’t deal with the body at the house I was sharing or the apartment I would take later. So, I’m still likely going to be seen as guilty of the crime.

Cracking a hole into the back patio and then refilling it with fresh concrete would have never flown with my control freak father. He would have investigated that in a heartbeat. Just then, I remember that my father had gone to court due to charges regarding the allegation he’d molested a family member, and then years after, another sibling told me that our father had molested her as well. The cascade opened up; my stepmother once started to complain to me about my father. They’d been divorced some time and she was about to tell me about something that she instantly had regrets about even alluding to, and stopped herself short from sharing that memory. What could it have been?

It’s dawning on me that all fingers point to him, that maybe I’d been inebriated, and he offered to give a ride home to the woman with whom I had been hanging out. This would make sense as only he could have allowed the concrete replacement. Maybe he really did have a predilection for sexually aggressing women and girls, and my desire to see my father as a hero, albeit an angry one, had clouded my vision of the monster he really was.

As I worked this out in my sleepy half-awake state of tossing and turning, the gripping anxiety started to relent to my relief that nothing of the events of those days were in my head as the situation was not of my making.

Zombies

JWise Dreams, Rant

Lady Bug from public domain source

I was woken by a nightmare in which I was trying to escape a lodging/sanatorium situation (think Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain), where I was quickly being consumed into giving up. I was losing sight of the joy I’d experienced being in national parks, walking in places I’d never been before, or having the desire to try new things. The original intent of checking into this living situation was to report on what appeared to be a cult operation, but it quickly became evident that it was simply a government-operated controlled environment where the comfort of conformity was being further engrained amongst those staying here. It didn’t take long to recognize that television was the common denominator, effectively forcing each person to specialize in a narrow band of interest that, over time, had negated other areas of curiosity that were deemed to be on the margin of sanctioned acceptance. Through this specialization, a dynamic individual is, in effect, reduced to a zombie where everything outside their purview is of little consequence or even meaning as there is no context relatable to their fixation on a silo of interest around which their personality has been wrapped. For example, the sports team enthusiast has no regard for those interested in literature, and the news junkie has no interest in the world around them other than the happenings that might relate to what will be on the news tonight. Maybe their curiosity has been reduced to fantasy films with cosplay as the obsession, or if you are a doctor, you fixate on all things health-related to the exclusion of some kind of balanced curiosity. On the other hand, we judge the addict whose singular focus is the drug-fueled experience in a world requiring surviving one’s self.

In all of these situations, the multiple facets of the individual evolving into a complex whole are sacrificed in order for a person to become a cannibalistic zombie where the diet is one’s potential.

Within hours of settling in at this lodge/sanatorium, I could already feel the banality of acceptance creeping into my being. Comfort was replacing indignation, and the horror of what was taking place was all too evident. The Uyghurs came to mind and their reprogramming. The West called their imprisonment by Chinese authorities a violation of human rights, but the more likely reason was the need to indoctrinate these rural people with the control brought about by state television and the programming to get them onboard with conformity. My anxiety about this situation where I was surrounded by those who were content about being complacently happy, even if that complacency was the persona of anger where the government was squashing your rights to owning a gun, were going to take away your freedom of religion, or rights to an abortion, as long as your focus has been reduced to gazing upon your singularity, you were in the loop and no longer a threat. It became paramount that I escape and bring Caroline, who was part of my cover for getting into this particular facility.

Back in our room, where we were obviously not expected, a cleaning crew was busy working over our environment when I recognized they were slowly removing things that would remind us of a different life outside of our “temporary” arrangement. We needed to go, but Caroline was now of the opinion that we didn’t need to rush, and I was having similar thoughts that were interfering with my sense we needed to leave while we could still entertain that option as one of personal choice. It was about then that I woke in a panic that I was losing myself.

Now, in that state of half-sleeping and waking where I wanted to leave the dream behind but also look closer at what it showed me, it felt obvious that television was the mechanism of brain-washing where someone like Vladimir Putin could fight a war while telling his people it was a special operation to denazify Ukraine or that Donald Trump could in his reassuring television persona convince those who’d grown up watching him for 30 years or more portray a tycoon that his answers and charms were part of the magic to wealth and so his followers listened to this piper as he led them deeper into their own stupidity. From politicians to celebrities, we see the mind control of the masses dropping into the cult of personality where we ourselves become the zombie.

It all clicks right there in my sleepy haze: society’s obsession with the zombie, monster, killer, despot, or various other forms of the sociopath or psychopath is our own desire to remove the vital organs of difference and curiosity so we might comfortably dine on our specialization without interference or criticism. We eat the brains of the living to make them like us, we kill in order to instill constant fear until we are numb, and we breed monsters and despots to force the meek to cower on the sidelines and bite their tongues. In effect, the healthy eat their own brains, becoming autocannibalistic, whereas at least the cute little ladybug only eats others of its own kind, not itself.

Dreams In The Void

JWise Dreams, Thoughts

Map of Europe

What does existence mean in a pandemic? Aside from the obvious of staying alive and free of the virus, it feels like a long pause to me. Obviously, nothing really serious is paused at all unless you consider travel, restaurants, live music, and social gatherings to have particular relevance. The absence of those things does not shut down our minds, cancel our imaginations, or otherwise truly hinder our ability to create. We can use their temporary hibernation as an excuse for our inability to focus should we need a crutch to demonstrate to others why we are languishing if, in fact, we are. The truth is that this should be a tremendous opportunity to recharge our batteries, explore new inspirations, cultivate plans for the future, and refine our focus. But still, I feel like things are on pause, and maybe I know why.

I have been living in a dream. Since the late 1980’s, I’ve mostly done whatever I wanted and the older I’ve grown, the more fortunate things became. I tried bohemian hedonism in Europe for a good stretch until Caroline and I moved to the United States to try our hand at life as adults. Okay, that was a rocky trail, but along the way, we never slowed down our travels, exploration, or learning. The turn of the century brought an incredible focus on our own evolution as we ventured further into the mindscape as our own horizons grew expansively. A year did not go by that we failed to count our good fortune, pinching ourselves at the opportunities unfolding before us. We were well aware that we were living the proverbial dream.

When I stop to seriously evaluate my statement about being on a pause, I have to admit that it’s a bit hyperbolic. Caroline and I often wished to have more time together; that’s just what we’ve had this past year. Caroline claims to love my cooking; well, we’ve certainly had plenty of that. If I wanted to replenish our pantry or my personal bookshelf, there was no need to hold back; what I wanted I added. The only thing really on pause has been our travel plans, but then again, we did manage to venture out for a total of 31 days away from home during 2020. But still, something feels amiss, and that some aspects of life are on hold.

When it comes down to it, the best explanation I can muster is that some small part of the reoccurring dream from the past 30-odd years is that the relative certainty of explorable options is now clouded by uncertainty. I cannot count on making hotel reservations in the distant future, and I’m extremely reluctant to even consider booking a flight. Back in August, we ventured out for three days to Duncan, Arizona, which paved the way with some tiny bit of confidence that we could travel, even if only by car and with a ton of caution regarding how others were treating the pandemic. This opened the door to us working on plans to head up to Oregon in November. Now, we are in the earliest days of 2021 and vaccines are starting to be distributed; hope is returning.

So, while we still go forward, albeit in the void of what had been normal, it is time to rev up our dreams. First up for Caroline and me is the wish to return to Europe. Sure, we have some whitewater rafting on the docket for the summer, but our heart is really in the formidable history splayed across the European landscape. Neither Caroline nor I have been to Florence, Italy, and we’ve been reluctant to do so due to the overwhelmingly large crowds over the past years, but as Europe reopens its gates to international travel, we could be in the first wave before tourism numbers are catapulted back to where they’d been.

What might this next visit look like for us? After some quick study of a map, my first inclination is the following: land in Paris, France, and take a couple of nights to recover. Board a train and head down to Grenoble, it only takes 4 hours to get there, enjoy an overnight here. Up to Geneva, Switzerland, on a 2-hour train ride before catching a ferry the next day to Lausanne for a night. On the next day, we are back on the lake to Montreux. Then the big one, a 7-hour train ride over to Florence, Italy, where we will stay for 4 or 5 days. We’ve always wanted to visit the home of the Renaissance. After that, we’ll board a train for a 6-hour ride to Innsbruck, Austria, with a couple of days there in the Alps before the 6-hour journey to Frankfurt, Germany, to visit with family. If time allows, I just noticed that we would be close to Livorno while in Italy, and from there, it’s only about 4 hours via ferry to jump over to Corsica. That would be a nice trip, and while so many others would be great too, Florence is our main draw, but only if we could go while it’s quiet, so a winter visit is also not out of the question.

Of course, Europe may not be in the cards this year, so travel alternatives have to be considered; time to start exploring the map of America.

Man-Cheese and The Wiggler

JWise Dreams

After a long period of forgotten dreams, where for months I have been lucky to wake up with but the smallest of fragments of what I had just been dreaming still floating in my head, I awoke this morning with the better part of a quite peculiar dream intact.

I am on my way to Missouri. The year is sometime in the future. I am a genetic mutation. I know a place in Missouri where I can make a few extra bucks at a bootleg operation. The farm isn’t making alcohol; they are not taking kidneys, but what they do is clandestine. They are making cheese. Not just any cheese, although at most times, this is just a normal farm, and cheese is a part of the repertoire of products they produce, but today, upon my arrival, they will switch gears and secretly change the recipe.

My mutation is that I am one of the one in 500 men who have developed teats near our hips. I produce man-milk. The farm I am visiting makes man-cheese. The product is illegal, but most would agree that this cheese has no competition. Due to our rareness and since this mutation to our species is new and not yet thoroughly researched, there is a concern that ‘this’ version of a genetically modified organism may produce undesirable results from consumption, so man-cheese is illegal. My dream didn’t tell me if it was illegal in France, too.

A strange side effect of being milked is that there is a correlating relationship to how much urine is produced, and so typically, after milking, I have the most extraordinary lengthy urinations one could imagine lasting minutes. It was during this act of disposal that I think someone reported the operation. We were alerted that the police were responding, and it was time to get away fast.

I grabbed a couple of Wigglers, threw one to my traveling companion, told him how to ride it, and we were off. A Wiggler is a genetically designed muscular creature about the size of a Frisbee that is three-pronged or Y-shaped. The top two prongs are handles for the rider to hold on to. These muscle-bound handles are attached through a brawny jumble of thick central muscles to a foot reminiscent of a kangaroo foot, only much smaller. To ride the Wiggler, you grab the two handles close to your chest and get on the ground face down. The foot of the Wiggler will keep your torso and face about six inches off the surface, but this requires that the rider wear hard rubber pads on the knees, hips, and elbows, so as you glide over the street, you don’t get road rash.

To get moving, pull up on the two arms or handles, and you go forward, push both, and you slow to a stop. Pull one, push the other to turn, do the opposite, and turn the other way. As the Wiggler flexes its powerful muscle and its foot begins the action for which it was named, the rider is propelled to a speed of nearly 15 miles per hour. The Wiggler is fast enough to evade anyone on foot and nimble enough to move in tight spaces to avoid vehicles.

As the police approach from behind a hill, we have the opportunity to pull around the corner of a house just as the policeman in chase comes into view; fortunately for us, we are no longer visible, but quietly we hide, hoping we have escaped the long arm of the law.

Violent Meat

JWise Dreams

Rarely do I have nightmares, but tonight was one of those rarities. It is not so much the content of the dream I want to convey here today but what might be the impetus behind the ugly dream. On these occasions, when my dreams are filled with violence, it could be typified as being of brutal carnage. Often, the scenes in the nightmare are warlike; they start with pursuit and end with some type of bloody death. It was no different this evening, except the methodology of the last killings was telling, at least in regards to what I have thought might be the trigger of these types of dreams. The method of killing was what appeared to be an electric or high-pressure staple gun; on waking, I could not be certain that it wasn’t a bolt device.

These dreams with gory violence only occur after I have eaten a large piece of meat or a large portion of ice cream. Due to not eating meat for breakfast or lunch and then only eating it at dinner one to two times a week at the most, I have enough vegetarian days where I also remember my dreams, and I do think that on those days, my dreams are devoid of gore. The dreams after eating a vegetarian meal may still be intense, but I cannot remember once when my dreams turned so horrific that I forced myself awake due to what I was witnessing or what was about to happen to me.

The question I would like to pose here in this posting is, has anyone else noticed in transitioning to a more vegetarian diet that they can distinguish a trend in their dreams where violence accompanies their dreams after having consumed animal products?