I can't recall any sleeping recently in which I wasn't constantly, vividly, quickly dreaming. I'm sure there is some, but it isn't frequent. I wake up feeling what I can only define as hung over every morning. (I probably need to get a tooth guard. That's one thing. I clench my jaw.)
Last night I recall two dreams specifically -- one in which I discovered the extent to which I had lost my hair, one in which I had to get a new car. I just remembered the hair one as I played with my hair irritatedly while reading. I had one of those moments where I thought "Oh, I shouldn't be pulling at my hair like this, since as I figured out yesterday I really have almost none of it left" and then realized that that revelation had actually taken place in a dream. I don't really have very thick hair, and I've often worried that I will eventually lose it. (I will wear a wig if this happens), but I haven't in real life lost it. That was a dream. I wonder if this bears some resemblance to the teeth-falling-out dreams that many people have. I never dream about losing my teeth, but teeth and hair do seem to be conceptually (as well as chemically) similar. So maybe I have a varient of the teeth dreams after all.
The car dream was remarkably consistent with the details of real life. In it my father had come up to visit (which he is doing this week), and we had driven out into the country (this part is not so realistic, but not impossible). When we went to get back in the car, I discovered it would not start. The engine just coughed and did not turn over. Luckily there was a mechanic on-site, and he evaluated it, only to discover that I had essentially ruined the engine by getting air in the fuel pump. I was very concerned, of course, but my father, in the way he has, simply began suggesting new cars I could buy.
And you see, I really did get air in the fuel pump of my car, so that's where it came from. Last Friday, Maggie and Britt and I went exploring. As we were coming back, Britt said "Hey, isn't your gas gague on low?"
And I said, with great abandon and what our cousins the French call nonchalance, "Oh, don't worry. It always says that. Ha! Ha!" At which point the car sputtered, coughed, lurched, and died at the bottom of the ninth street bridge. "Ha! Ha!" I said. Note the difference in imagined intonation.
"Well! I said. "It appears I have run out of gas!"
"Yes," said Britt and Maggie. "It appears that you have."
"Fear not!" I said. "There is a gas station up the road! We will walk to it!"
"Okay," they said.
[Notice the calmness and fortitude we all displayed in this dramatic situation.]
So we walked up ninth street where we discovered that, at the top of the ninth street bridge were in fact, the police. Helping someone who appeared to have run into the curb and popped a tire. "Should I notify the authorities that my car is sitting unattended at the bottom of the bridge?" I asked. We decided yes.
So I approached a patrol car where a very bored police officer was talking on his phone. I stood there until he rolled wonhis window. He was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn't tell, but I'm pretty sure his expression under the glasses would have been described as "wryly irritated." He did not speak but only looked. "Fine officer!" I said. "You will perhaps notice my vehicle left at the bottom of the bridge. I have, it appears, run out of gas! I am walking to get some! So now you know. In case you should wonder. About my vehicle!" He did not speak but merely looked. And then rolled up his window.
"I guess it's good they know," said Maggie. We walked on. There's this restaurant at the corner of ninth and E. Market called Fuel that is actually a combined fancy deli, wine shop, and gas station. It was the closest, so we went in there and explained the situation. The elegantly dressed waiters were surprisingly sympathetic (also bored -- there were no patrons), but had no gas can. They suggested we try the Lucky Seven to see if we could buy a gas can. We crossed ninth street and entered the lucky seven.
"Fine clerk!" I said. "I have run out of gas! Would you perhaps have a gas can for which I might exchange money?"
"A gas can? Like one of those red things?" said the clerk. "Nope. Sorry. Try up the street."
"I think they're closed," I said. (The tiny shell station at the corner of ninth and high street is almost always closed.)
"There's a Joy station at the bottom of the hill by the hospital," she said.
We walked on. "Shouldn't we call someone?" Britt asked.
"No no!" I said blithely. "Still under control!"
At that moment, the Fates intervened for the better: we percevied that the Shell station was in fact open! I ran up to the door and communicated my plight. "Oh, ok," the woman said, kindly, "But we're only open for another fifteen minutes. Can you be back by then?"
"Most certainly, kind lady!" I replied. I left a $20 deposit and we filled the gas can. We started back down. We then decided to take turns carrying it. Gas cans are awkward. Then we carried it in tandem. Finally we reached the car.
There, however, difficulties presented themselves again: we couldn't figure out how to assemble the spout/cap so that it would stay in the gas can and thus adequately convey the gas into the car. Time hurried on as we fiddled and fiddled with it, until Britt, spying a passer-by, called for help. It turned out he knew how to do it, and I had a flashlight to help him see, and so all, at last, was remedied. (He also was very kind. And even, in fact, silent police officer hovered behind watching to make sure we got out okay. Although this was in fact slightly disconcerting.)
So we put the gas in the car. I got in and blithely attempted to start the car and...the engine coughed, coughed, coughed, and would not turn over. "Okay! That's just at first!" I said. "We'll try again!" Cough. Cough. Cough. Nothing. Cough. Nothing. Cough. Nothing. Cough.
The air was thick. With tension. And gas fumes. "I think it's possible to get air [or, more properly, too much air, though I didn't say that then] in your fuel pump," I said. "When I was running it before on such little fuel, that must be what happened." I tried again. Cough. Nothing. "It should get better soon," I said. Cough. Cough. Cough. I didn't speak. Coug....start! It started. "Oh thank God," said Britt. We drove back. We got a full tank of gas. All ended up well.
Apparently, though, the event has not ended in my subconscious, since I'm still dreaming about it. That's probably good. It will induce me to fill up my car more often. As I remarked during the walk up to the gas station, it's likely that I allowed this to happen simply because I'd been afraid of it for a long time. I often dally with things of which I am afraid until they actually happen, out of a subcutaneous belief (less hidden than subconscious, you see. only under the skin) that if they do happen I will either no longer be afraid or be dead, and either is better than being afraid constantly.
Regardless, I wish my subconscious would let me sleep a little deeper.
Last night I recall two dreams specifically -- one in which I discovered the extent to which I had lost my hair, one in which I had to get a new car. I just remembered the hair one as I played with my hair irritatedly while reading. I had one of those moments where I thought "Oh, I shouldn't be pulling at my hair like this, since as I figured out yesterday I really have almost none of it left" and then realized that that revelation had actually taken place in a dream. I don't really have very thick hair, and I've often worried that I will eventually lose it. (I will wear a wig if this happens), but I haven't in real life lost it. That was a dream. I wonder if this bears some resemblance to the teeth-falling-out dreams that many people have. I never dream about losing my teeth, but teeth and hair do seem to be conceptually (as well as chemically) similar. So maybe I have a varient of the teeth dreams after all.
The car dream was remarkably consistent with the details of real life. In it my father had come up to visit (which he is doing this week), and we had driven out into the country (this part is not so realistic, but not impossible). When we went to get back in the car, I discovered it would not start. The engine just coughed and did not turn over. Luckily there was a mechanic on-site, and he evaluated it, only to discover that I had essentially ruined the engine by getting air in the fuel pump. I was very concerned, of course, but my father, in the way he has, simply began suggesting new cars I could buy.
And you see, I really did get air in the fuel pump of my car, so that's where it came from. Last Friday, Maggie and Britt and I went exploring. As we were coming back, Britt said "Hey, isn't your gas gague on low?"
And I said, with great abandon and what our cousins the French call nonchalance, "Oh, don't worry. It always says that. Ha! Ha!" At which point the car sputtered, coughed, lurched, and died at the bottom of the ninth street bridge. "Ha! Ha!" I said. Note the difference in imagined intonation.
"Well! I said. "It appears I have run out of gas!"
"Yes," said Britt and Maggie. "It appears that you have."
"Fear not!" I said. "There is a gas station up the road! We will walk to it!"
"Okay," they said.
[Notice the calmness and fortitude we all displayed in this dramatic situation.]
So we walked up ninth street where we discovered that, at the top of the ninth street bridge were in fact, the police. Helping someone who appeared to have run into the curb and popped a tire. "Should I notify the authorities that my car is sitting unattended at the bottom of the bridge?" I asked. We decided yes.
So I approached a patrol car where a very bored police officer was talking on his phone. I stood there until he rolled wonhis window. He was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn't tell, but I'm pretty sure his expression under the glasses would have been described as "wryly irritated." He did not speak but only looked. "Fine officer!" I said. "You will perhaps notice my vehicle left at the bottom of the bridge. I have, it appears, run out of gas! I am walking to get some! So now you know. In case you should wonder. About my vehicle!" He did not speak but merely looked. And then rolled up his window.
"I guess it's good they know," said Maggie. We walked on. There's this restaurant at the corner of ninth and E. Market called Fuel that is actually a combined fancy deli, wine shop, and gas station. It was the closest, so we went in there and explained the situation. The elegantly dressed waiters were surprisingly sympathetic (also bored -- there were no patrons), but had no gas can. They suggested we try the Lucky Seven to see if we could buy a gas can. We crossed ninth street and entered the lucky seven.
"Fine clerk!" I said. "I have run out of gas! Would you perhaps have a gas can for which I might exchange money?"
"A gas can? Like one of those red things?" said the clerk. "Nope. Sorry. Try up the street."
"I think they're closed," I said. (The tiny shell station at the corner of ninth and high street is almost always closed.)
"There's a Joy station at the bottom of the hill by the hospital," she said.
We walked on. "Shouldn't we call someone?" Britt asked.
"No no!" I said blithely. "Still under control!"
At that moment, the Fates intervened for the better: we percevied that the Shell station was in fact open! I ran up to the door and communicated my plight. "Oh, ok," the woman said, kindly, "But we're only open for another fifteen minutes. Can you be back by then?"
"Most certainly, kind lady!" I replied. I left a $20 deposit and we filled the gas can. We started back down. We then decided to take turns carrying it. Gas cans are awkward. Then we carried it in tandem. Finally we reached the car.
There, however, difficulties presented themselves again: we couldn't figure out how to assemble the spout/cap so that it would stay in the gas can and thus adequately convey the gas into the car. Time hurried on as we fiddled and fiddled with it, until Britt, spying a passer-by, called for help. It turned out he knew how to do it, and I had a flashlight to help him see, and so all, at last, was remedied. (He also was very kind. And even, in fact, silent police officer hovered behind watching to make sure we got out okay. Although this was in fact slightly disconcerting.)
So we put the gas in the car. I got in and blithely attempted to start the car and...the engine coughed, coughed, coughed, and would not turn over. "Okay! That's just at first!" I said. "We'll try again!" Cough. Cough. Cough. Nothing. Cough. Nothing. Cough. Nothing. Cough.
The air was thick. With tension. And gas fumes. "I think it's possible to get air [or, more properly, too much air, though I didn't say that then] in your fuel pump," I said. "When I was running it before on such little fuel, that must be what happened." I tried again. Cough. Nothing. "It should get better soon," I said. Cough. Cough. Cough. I didn't speak. Coug....start! It started. "Oh thank God," said Britt. We drove back. We got a full tank of gas. All ended up well.
Apparently, though, the event has not ended in my subconscious, since I'm still dreaming about it. That's probably good. It will induce me to fill up my car more often. As I remarked during the walk up to the gas station, it's likely that I allowed this to happen simply because I'd been afraid of it for a long time. I often dally with things of which I am afraid until they actually happen, out of a subcutaneous belief (less hidden than subconscious, you see. only under the skin) that if they do happen I will either no longer be afraid or be dead, and either is better than being afraid constantly.
Regardless, I wish my subconscious would let me sleep a little deeper.
I love that use of subcutaneous!
I'm disappointed in your police officer. My police officer cum brother-in-law would have been much more helpful. He would've responded in a plucky archaic manner, too!