Dream-logging is an excellent exercise. Now starting the 14th month thereof. After six nights sleeping with my head towards the north, I could tell that my dreams were becoming less vivid, less memorable. Going to bed too late also has a negative impact on dream quality. Last night then, I reversed polarity and went to sleep at 22:00, my pillow at the southern end of the bed. And bingo.
I wake at 02:20 to record the following dream... "It is 1930s America. I am around 17, 18 years old. I have an old Model T Ford that I have restored to working order, and I have an idea. I might not be legally allowed to drive it on the roads, but within the borders of the National Park - I would. I could make money driving visitors from the gate to the start of the trail, I could make money delivering goods within the park. There's a knock at the front door that disturbs my planning. I peek through the window – three of my classmates have come for me – it's not good. I work out my strategy. Get aggressive with the small, weak one. The middle one - punch him in the face when he's not expecting it. The big, strong one – he'll respect me for that move and back off. The three of them will retreat... I open the door and wake up."
An interesting dream that fits into a pattern of what I would call 'past-life' dreams. These line up the three classical unities of time, place and action; there is no disjunctive cognition (bizarre, out-of place objects or people). The dream runs realistically, convincingly.
So here they are - my canonical past-life dreams, dreamt over several decades of my life - the dreams that Freud called the 'Big Dreams'.
The Dust Bowl dream: 1930s; Kentucky? My mother and I can see what looks like a mile-high wall of dust on the horizon, advancing inexorably towards our small farm house. She gets me to help her fold the table cloth and the bedding and put them into a secure trunk, closing all the window and shutters. Our dog is in the corner, whining in fear. My father had recently passed.
The State Fair dreams: 1930s: Kentucky? I'm looking across a huge field from a gate, knowing that in a few days, the field will be full of tents and stands and attractions, barkers and hucksters - the State Fair! In another one, I'm outside an attraction. A throng of people pressing forward to get in. There's a girl in front of me, a year or two older. I'm pushed forward against her – I feel a rising erection. She can feel it – without looking round at me, she starts wiggling her ass up and down - amazing! I never get to see her face, but it's an amazing moment for a young teenager like me. Also (I had three 'State Fair' dreams, in another, I was tasting 'wheat-flavoured' ice cream from a stand promoting U.S. Wheat).
The Restored Truck dream: I'm a teenager on the farm. There's a WW1-era Mack Bulldog, grey in colour, in a neighbour's barn. I manage to fix the engine and get it back to life, a sense of immense satisfaction at my mechanical skills as it finally turns over and starts, a throaty roar amid a cloud of dense smoke. I drive it in a circle around the field outside.
The Bonded Warehouse dream: my teenage gang breaks into a bonded warehouse to steal liquor and cigarettes. On our way out, the security guard at the gate wakes up - I almost kill the dozy fat old man by banging his head repeatedly on the ground before my friends drag me away, fearful of being caught as accessories to murder.
The Racetrack dream. The year is 1939 or 1940; America (Kentucky? Ohio? West Virginia? Maryland? Pennsylvania?), a racetrack. Horse racing. I was standing alone, on the outside, not allowed in, as a minor, almost grown-up, but missing a year or two. Betting and alcohol. The grandstands were in a modern building; turnstile entry. A noisy crowd milling around outside. Getting dark, the track and the plaza around the entrance and parking lot were floodlit with harsh lighting. Billboards, lit from above. The wet ground littered with discarded betting slips. I'd manage to get me a bottle of beer – Rolling Rock. But I wasn't going to get allowed in – and I knew it. So I just stood there, sipping beer, between the grandstand. Lots of people entering and leaving the racetrack. Starting to rain; getting cold.
The Call-Up dream: It's 7 June 1944, the day after D-Day. I'm in the back of a 6x6 truck along with a group of young men, in military uniform, though bearing no insignia yet. We're heading south for a camp for our basic training. I have just left my girlfriend, her name is Kelly Kamen, she is of Russian-Jewish parentage. A haircut is due.
The Silver Aircraft dream: It's summer 1945, I am wading ashore towards a Pacific island at low tide shortly after the Marines have taken it from the Japanese. I am in a long line of men carrying wooden crates from a landing vessel to the beach. Inside are engine parts, other supplies for repairing planes. In the deep blue sky, I can see formations of shiny silver bombers heading for Japan at high altitude.
The Return Home dream: October 1945. Our ship berths in San Diego, back from the Pacific War. The men want to go home. My mother died while I was away; I'm in no rush. A group of us decide to hit a brothel in Mexicali before splitting up and going home. We go – it's night, I take up with a woman who's wearing a pink rubber swim-suit.
The Zig Zag dream: I wake in a wooden hotel, called 'Zig Zag', in a town called 'Zig Zag'. Blood is dripping from the ceiling. I go to investigate the room upstairs and find a decapitated body. I have no recollection of the night before, and I flee, fearing I might have done this while drunk. [Next morning I googled it and found the Zig Zag Inn in Zig Zag, Oregon]
The Floatplane Theft dream: mid-1950s; it's night, lakes; parked up by a wooden jetty is a Cessna floatplane; I have the desire to steal it. I am trained to fly aircraft; having slipped the mooring rope, I break into the cabin; the door's not even locked. But having no flashlight, I can't find the magneto switch that I need to flip to begin the process of starting the engine. I slink off, disappointed.
The 'Mr. Martin' dream: I am hovering about seven or eight feet over my body in a modern-looking hospital, a long three-story white building set among pines. It's about 3am. A nurse stands at the foot of my bed, looking at a clipboard, and thinking: "Mr. Martin, you will not live until the morning." I'm thinking that it's tactless of her to think such a thought.
Over the years, a pattern is emerging, one that fits my past-life flashbacks that come to me when I'm wide awake; moments of congruence - anomalous memories of qualia from another time and another place. It's not a particularly strong phenomenon, but one I've noted since childhood – certainly from around the age of four or five. These exomnesia (or xenomnesia) events snap back with a joyous precision and clarity. I have several on average a month, of varying intensity and duration (though most short – cutting at the moment I start to reflect upon them).
You may not be convinced, but I am; the flashbacks are pleasant and familiar, and offer intimations of lives past. The dreams – some pleasant, some not – that dovetail in spacetime with the flashbacks, while offering something more than just qualia memories – actual events.
Experiencing this phenomenon all my life suggests how a life yet to come may manifest itself. The future boy who feels a strange connection with the second half of the 20th century in London and the first half of the 21st century in Warsaw. Stronger than before, more understanding, more enlightened – the soul moving into a new container on its eternal journey from Zero to One.
This time two years ago:
Knowing what 'good' looks like
This three years ago:
Sewer system extended up Trombity
This time four years ago:
What Happened at the Railway Inn (Part II)
This time seven years ago:
Demand and inequality in the global economy
This time eight years ago:
Sorry, takie mamy koleje
This time nine years ago:
Visit to Warsaw's Jewish Cemetery
This time ten years ago:
Under Rondo Dmowskiego
This time 11 years ago:
My Most favourite bridge
This time 12 years ago:
Street lighting under the snow
This time 13 years ago:
Ul. Poloneza - archival video before the S2 was built
This time 14 years ago:
Aerial juxtaposition over Jeziorki
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