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I packed a huge lunch for myself (with pickles and cheese), and I walked out the door headed to high school. Unfortunately for me, my mom had decided that I must bike to school while my brothers and father took the cars. Now, that would never really happen as my school was several miles of fast-driving road away, but nonetheless.
I hadn’t anticipated this wrinkle, so I got a late start. To make things worse, I got as far as two blocks from my house when I realized I had forgotten a helmet. Helmets are the law in that state, and I wasn’t about to get pulled over. Or hit by a semi without one. It was already 8:32, on top of that, as I was an incredibly slow biker on an ancient vehicle.
I turned back. Others along the bike route did too, but they were being pursued by a gunman. Road rager or something. We ended up back at my parents’ place on foot.
I can’t remember what happens next. I do recall another dream involving the appearance of long-legged, enormous bugs. Don’t know what happened next as I woke with a gasp.
I was traveling, exploring an indeterminate tourist attraction. My family was with me, and as we were going through some stone passage (or possibly a cave), my dad and I were having a conversation about banks.
I kept encountering a man and a woman dressed like low-key clowns in red and yellow, who I recalled were part of the experience of the place and were a good thing to get a picture of. They seemed to know this, too, and always picked up on my camera being pointed their way to make large, hammy grins. This embarrassed me, and I would immediately point my camera slightly elsewhere as if I had been lining up a shot of something else all along. Once I even yelled at them, “Why do you keep doing that?!” as I framed my dad’s face quickly with the turned camera.
One of the clowns pulled me aside later and informed me that the reason they had caught my camera each time was because the two of them were keeping an eye on me. He informed me that I was in fact a secret agent. When I denied this, he told me to listen to some video, which seemed to be in Russian. He said I would understand it, and it seemed like I was on the verge of understanding what was going on but . . . the end.
Two of my dreams were somewhat intertwined, as I remember it.
There was a race of some sort. My ragtag team (of boys dressed 19th-century style) decided to buy an airplane kit to get us from one end to the other. I objected, as none of us knew how to fly a plane. I didn’t go, but the rest of them did. As I feared, they managed to take off and fly, but they didn’t figure out how to land. Some survived, including a tall boy wearing aviator goggles and a leather cap who came out of it looking dripping wet, but half did not.
A friend and I sat on the floor in a movie theater without seats, watching this news on a film reel. We saw a news conference with that boy in the background, and then a funeral procession passing by holding up photos of the dead. Then that procession continued, but now it held up photos of other dead people we didn’t recognize. Suddenly, the number of photos in the procession multiplied, and everyone in the theater rose and rushed toward the screen. No! It couldn’t be our pictures! As we all surged forward, the black curtains behind the screen retracted and the screen lifted, showing a gleaming rainbow-colored wall and shoppers in a mall — it was only a movie, after all.
My final dream of the night (well, it turned more into afternoon) concerned some sort of conspiracy or aliens. Maybe both. I mostly remember it was pretty exciting stuff, so I didn’t want to wake up and end it.
The Archaeologist (with an Egypt specialty) will have a “sidekick,” a colleague (perhaps a grad student she’s mentoring) with an Indiana Jones complex. The sidekick insists on wearing the fedora a lot and is always looking for adventure, disappointed to be stuck mainly with grunt work archaeology. His/her courage bales a bit in the face of real danger, but he/she manages to stick it out and emerge cocky, Indy-like. Comic relief through silliness; serves to contrast with the heroine and show that she did NOT enter archaeology to be Indiana Jones.
Because I certainly do not intend to write the fifth movie in writing a story about a subject I’ve long enjoyed.
Last night’s dreaming mostly involved some sort of action-adventure conspiracy story with hints of the show Lost (I’m sure so many men out there wish they could borrow my brain at night), but only two details in particular stand out in memory.
One was that at some point in the action, one of my team turned on the gas in an oven in our basement hideout/prison in hopes of triggering an explosion when the bad guys next fired their guns at (unknown to them, escaped) us. Sort of kawhoosh, like when the lighter on your stovetop doesn’t catch at first and you better back up from the burner for when it does. This plan had no success though, merely leaving us in a jam as to who would brave all that gas to go in and shut off the oven after the bad guys, having smelled the gas, hightailed it out of there.
The other was that this basement thing was also a large library, a warehouse-style store, and a depository of pizza. Much of my extended family was down there with me, where we spent part of the time looking for books and signing up for library cards, which built up an appetite. No need to cook, as, like I mentioned, there were pizza boxes stacked as far as the eye could see. Of all different varieties, too: I got not only pepperoni, but also a cream sauce pizza and a pesto-y herb pizza for my munching.
Makes me kind of hungry. No, I did not eat my pillow.
I’m at my parents’ house. We notice some nasty roaches crawling around, a new and highly unusual sight, and one that definitely turns my stomach. But something is wrong. People and animals in the house start showing cockroach features — hands turning insect-like, and so on. A few of my brothers and I escape to my grandparents’ house, leaving behind my mother, some other unlucky brothers, and the family dogs (Zoe, Oscar, and Elvis in this dream) who have turned into giant roaches.
We investigate the calamity from the safety of my grandparents’ house, where any roach-like features fade away. One of my distant cousins (Doug or John) has knowledge of extermination in the dream and devises a formula that will kill the small, real roaches while only knocking out the big, human-and-dog roaches. They return to their normal state.
We find clues as to who and what was behind the roach invasion, especially a few keychain-sized film cameras scattered through the scene, but we can’t get the film developed as the enemy knows we have them and will intervene to steal the film from the developer if we are not careful.
The pressure starts to close in. Two people figure out that the roach faction has discovered us and is striking again. They pack a sack full of anti-roach chemicals and the precious cameras. The more experienced one tells the other that they must leave, paying no attention to what anyone says on the way out. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get this and is deterred when the once-trusted relatives at my grandparents’ house ask where they are going, eying the sack. The roach disease has started to strike here too, and they know what’s coming if they don’t get the chemicals. Apparently, Dr. Rodney McKay has a lab in the house that is starting to show signs of infection, and he begs for some of the liquid. The inexperienced one starts to open the bag, but the experienced one works faster, tossing away the small liquid bottle toward the others to distract them and make a getaway as they lunge for the evidence — they have been compromised.
Meanwhile, back at my parents’ house, my dad has returned from a business trip and doesn’t believe the story of the roaches. I notice that the sickness is returning as I find some roaches invading. I run upstairs and stuff a suitcase with whatever clothes I can grab most quickly and shout at my dad to get back in his car. My arm is already starting to turn. I try to save the pets, as I find them looking pretty normal by the door, but on picking Elvis up I notice insect-like arms starting to poke out from his underside, and he turns vicious as I drop him.
I run to my dad’s car and beg him to let me in as he starts it up. Eventually he yields but is surprised to see my arm. I explain that he is safe as long as I don’t bite or something, and that it will fade. In fact, having resisted transformation once before made it slower to happen for me the second time.
We drive to safety, and I attempt to explain what’s happening to my distant cousins, who won’t believe it’s happening again. I show my hand, but there are barely any traces left of the insect change. But it’s enough to get them worried.
Here, I woke up. The dream was interwoven a bit with some sort of exercise in finding a hotel for a bus full of people in the parking lot of a German- or Dutch-run shopping center in Britain with some ticket-happy parking police.
