A friend of mine (a guy) and his friend (also a guy, but seemingly younger/smaller) tell me about how they’ve found an apartment. They’re staying in a house for five, with four rooms. They sound very excited about it. Really my friend speaks for both of them.
Later, I am away, as in a vacation. I find a place to stay for the night. A little rooming house. I over hear a lady ask the manager: “So, if I decide to stay a minute or two late (meaning 5:07) will I be charged extra?” The manager lady (somewhat begrudgingly) says no. Then she is talking to me and informs me the checkout time is 5. I understand this to mean 4pm, initially I thought it might be am, but that would be strange. I am pretty happy about this information, I hate having to rush early in the morning and carry my belongings with me around town. I remember my friend Rachel stayed here before, and told me about the late check out time, but left early in the day anyway. I was sad that she left early when we could have hung out longer, but I understood that she had things to do.
The place is nice for a house. I am comfortable. I am the only one around after being shown to my room. The other lady and the manager have gone. I decide to look around. Furnishings look to have been purchased in the late 70’s, but are well maintained. The furniture may be older, it is nice, but the bed coverings have those colors and materials. Nothing’s gaudy, they weren’t trendy when purchased, just of that era. I like that about the place, I wish more things were maintained instead of pitching and remodeling. Most of the rooms are very small like mine. There are only three bedrooms so far. The rest are common spaces, this is also nice, places to live in, as opposed to just using every scrap of space for renting rooms. Then I find the double room. I peak in. It has a full bed and a smaller mattress on the floor. It looks comfortable but sparse (like the rest of the place), somewhat institutional I guess. Every few moments as I am looking I realize there are people sleeping in the beds. I try to become more aware of this. I realize they are my friends (the guy and his friend). I find this comforting. I quietly back away and go to my room.
The next day I go down to the river for a festival or carnival of some sort. I walk on the boardwalk and see a variety of people. One asks me about Coco, I explain I didn’t want to bring him for this. I see a little chihuahua, I think it might be Chichi. I pick her up and smell her belly. It’s not her. I am a little disappointed.
I lean on the railing and look out over the river. It’s dusky, night is almost full, everything looks black and white. I see a very large owl flying down the river and into some woods that are off to my right in a small island. It was a barred owl. I see a couple more owls, flying in the same direction. They are not all the same, but one is a barred owl. Then I see one flying towards me and off to my left. This one has a white moon face–barn owl! I had never seen a barn owl before. I am in shock about how amazing it is to see the owls. They are so beautiful.
I want to take pictures of the owls. When I get out my camera they are gone. An eagle lands on a buoy to fish. I think maybe I’ll take his picture since the owls are gone. He does some funny things with his wings, like try to scratch his back–when he does, his color goes funny, sort of thin/transparent, and he doesn’t seem so real, like maybe he is not an eagle.
As I continue looking at him he is more like a person. He sits more like a man, and looks at me. He has an eagle beak. He is reddish, he has a long beard that goes from blond to red, or red to blond, it is hard to pin down.
He’s on the boardwalk now. As big as a big man, looking like a 6’4″ morbidly obese Native American man. I ask to take his picture and he doesn’t seem to object, nevertheless he keeps shapeshifting in ugly ways. First he looks like an eagle. Then his beard is back. I have been trying to politely talk with him, despite his attitude being a little off-putting. I tell him that I like his beard. He looks down, as if to say, this is not a beard. I had been trying to figure out if it was a beard or feathers. At that moment, I realize it is made up of very fine peacock-like feathers, very wispy, and very many.
Then he grabs a person walking by and poses for the camera like they are sloppy drunk people. Then he again looks huge and fat. He sits in front of me, looking straight at me. Just as I am about to take the picture, he turns his head over his right shoulder and vomits dark brown–he’s eaten too much. His vomiting makes me so sick that I turn and vomit over the rail. My vomit is light in color. I find this situation strange, as I do not normally get sick to my stomach. I turn back and finally take his picture. Then I think about how we both probably need to brush our teeth.
This dream was very puzzling for me. It brought up some issues I have been thinking about regarding cameras and dreams and cameras and birds. I have a big internal battle between over respecting boundaries and knowing when things are no big deal. Here’s where I am siding for the moment: I think it is really important to take pictures of subtle things (like birds who know you’re watching) only if they seem okay with it, and your heart really wants it. I, on the other hand, have been doing a bit of casual shooting, kind of: ‘oh, I want to shoot owls, but I’ll take you since you’re around’. Not very respectful of the life form that happens to rank not so high at the present time. So that was a good lesson, especially since I have been working on my guide: Taking Your Camera into Dreamtime.
Let’s see, the dream also reminds me of a crappy movie I saw recently (the bed and mattress on the floor) and a particularly unsavory fellow that I ran into at work. I almost became lucid when I puked, as that is apparently even more unlikely than me standing in front of a shapeshifting eagle. Here’s to more lucidity in the future.
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