Sometimes my stories are inspired by dreams. For example, the opening scene of “The Emissary” was inspired by a dream. I used that dream to begin a story. The questions came. What happens next? Where do I go after that? Who sent the module? Why? And as the main character asks, “why me?” Edison’s proposition came fully into play: 2% inspiration plus 98% perspiration. 35,000 words later, I had a story. There are other stories with dream or fantasy elements, to be discussed at a later time. Meanwhile, here is a recent dream sequence. I’m not sure whether this will lead to a story, but it might be an interesting place to start.
My dream began with a family vacation to a grand resort in the Ozarks, or a similar place. Immediately, I realized I had visited it at least once before in another dream. The kids were young. The place was nestled in the woods, with glass walls and spectacular views. My wife and kids were otherwise occupied, so I set out to explore the building, walking along hallways and checking out various rooms. I came to a branch off the main hallway, a shorter hall, about 20 feet long – with the floor divided lengthwise – 1/3 of the floor looked like regular carpeting, and the other 2/3 looked like a steel trap door. At the end of the hall was a door with a hand-painted sign, “Not an entrance.” Just as I was about to turn and walk back down the wider main hallway, the door opened. Another door behind it slid aside, and the one behind that drew up into the ceiling, in the manner of “Get Smart,” but with fewer doors. Behind the doors was a wall with a hand-painted mural. Under my breath, I said, “Oh…it’s the theatre…”
A friendly voice said, “Come on in, we’ll show you around.”
A couple of women in overalls, obviously very proud of the place, showed me a nice workshop, with a workbench, saw, and various tools. There were colorful flats and pieces of lumber stacked all around, with paint cans in the corner.
Along came an elegantly dressed man. “How about a tour of the theatre? Have you ever seen it?”
“Only once. A couple of years ago. From the audience.”
“Well, come with me, then.”
The man took me through the stage door and out on the stage. He pointed out the great acoustics of the place. “Look at the floor tiles in the front of the house. That’s the secret.”
The front of the house, about ¼ of the auditorium, was covered with special reddish-purple tiles which curved like an undulating earth berm down towards a flat standing area in front of the stage and up towards the seating area behind that. It was possible to climb up or down the “tile hill” with a little difficulty. The tiles were slippery. With that, the man was gone. I climbed up to a ledge, about one-foot wide, that ran around the outside of a short wall in front of the seating area. I gingerly navigated the ledge, holding on to a railing on top of the short wall. It had openings at the sides and at the center, where I now found myself. Behind the short wall was a flat area in front of the first row of seats. I was able to step up and stood there, at the foot of the center aisle.
Above me on a flat blonde-colored wood surface was a small minivan, like a vintage Subaru or Toyota, smaller than a VW bus, more like a sub-compact car. Its wheels were on rag rugs, like my grandmother used to weave. Above the little van, a person stumbled, and fell on the rear of the van, pushing it off the flat area towards me. As it rolled down towards the standing room floor, I stepped aside and yelled, “Look out! Get out of the way!”
People scattered. Just as the minivan went over the ledge, I reached out and grabbed it with my fingertips, my arms extended like giant forceps. I held on tight. “Goddammit, this is heavy,” was my only response as I strained to hold on. With some effort I not only managed to hold on, but pick up the van, and turn around to replace it on the flat area, this time facing the other way.
By this time, all eyes were on me. As I left, I remarked for all those within earshot, “Goddammit, that was really heavy,” and cradled my lower back in my hands, for good measure. The dream faded…
After I told my daughter about all this, she remarked, “This is why you should never take drugs.” Indeed. I swear I was not on any mind-altering medications. Just imagine what might happen if I were more like Berlioz. Symphonie Fantastique was based on one of his opioid-induced dreams…
MurrayWorks 