Tag Archives: dreams

My Keanu Reeves Dream

For years I’ve had a recurring dream starring Keanu Reeves.

In the dream I am trying to get to him, trying to get his attention. We are usually surrounded by people at some event. They crowd around him like a Kool blockade I can’t quite permeate.

Who are these seemingly so important people keeping him engaged in their uppity conversation when all I want to do is have him glance in my direction so he can be lured by my humble eyes and kind smile?

I wake up feeling failed and lost. Once again, he doesn’t come to me. Doesn’t even look my way. There are no engaging exchange of words between us. No hand on shoulder. No walking off into the sunset.

Until last night. And the one a few months ago.

He finally looked away from his entourage long enough to see me among the bloodsuckers. He smiled at me. We danced like goofy kids underneath a string of glowing white party lights.

Last night we actually talked. We laughed like old friends catching up after too many years apart. And we embraced just the same.

I woke up with a happy, peaceful smile underneath the crisp bed sheets.

Dreams are the brain’s way of disecting our waking problems, make sense of them and problem solve. Although sometimes in their wake we are left feeling more confused.

Maybe Keanu represents my self-confidence. And now I am finally gaining ownership of it. Maybe he represents my fears and how I’ve begun to face and live with/overcome many of them. Or maybe Keanu just represents himself because I’ve had a celebrity crush on him since 1988.

Either way it was so refreshing to wake up feeling the happy ending to a too-long unresolved story. And being hugged by Keanu Reeves was pretty freakin excellent.

Reeves, Keanu

Keanu Reeves Hollywood 12/2000 By Armando Gallo


Do you have any recurring dreams? What are your interpretations? I’d love to hear your story…

Leave a comment

Filed under Weird Dreams

A Curtain of Dragonflies

A curtain of dragonflies
flowed down from the sky
and came before me
shining like twilight
They weren’t coming
to take me away
but entering from another realm
reminding me to say
the ideas in my mind
in the starry night
the things I hold dear
and dream of
those things which cannot
be taken away
with a thousand wings of flight
or a thousand angry tongues
So sweet and calm and magical
this curtain is
Flow down to me again
and the next.


Leave a comment

Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

A Paint Stick and a Dream

On the heels of Maya Angelou’s death my son’s fourth grade class put on a poetry tea. It wasn’t planned this way. They just happened to transpire in the same week.

I’ve never been to a poetry tea. I’ve been to poetry slams, where upon entering everyone is given a paint stick. Instead of clapping or snapping (never really understood that one) you slam the paint stick on the desk in click-clack applause.

When my son told me weeks ago they were beginning to study poetry at school I was elated. Finally something I could get excited about. Common Core math is all he seems to bring home and talk about (and fail). I don’t do math. I took remedial math in college because my ACT math score was so low. I used to stab my math book with a pencil on homework nights in middle school. One year I snuck my worn math book home on the last day of school, placed it in the dry creek bed behind our house, and set it on fire.

But poetry? I wrote my first poem sometime during elementary school. I’m sure my mom still has it as she has much of my early schoolwork, artwork, and report cards archived.

I continued to write poetry into high school. Became the editor of the writer’s group. Won an English award for outstanding achievement. Wrote more poetry in college. Went to more poetry slams. Acquired more paint sticks.

My mom even kept one of my poetry slam paint sticks. And brought it to the tea. My son was intrigued. But asked me to please not slam it.

My mom even kept one of my poetry slam paint sticks. And brought it to the tea. My son was intrigued. But asked me to please not slam it.

It was a dream of mine to become the next great American poet or author. To make money and gain notoriety from what I loved and seemed born to do. That dream among wanting to become a famous actress, a CIA agent, and at one time an astronaut. Now I hate being in front of a camera. Don’t like guns. Haven’t flown in six years. But this writing and poetry thing? Yeah, it stuck.

Maya Angelou’s first book I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings was published when she was in her early forties. You don’t have to be young to be an accomplished writer. And you don’t have to be accomplished to write. We do it because we have to.

I don’t know what my son will end up being passionate about. Right now he wants to become a firefighter. Or create story lines for video games. I don’t care if he doesn’t get math. Because I get that. Would I love if he were to get into poetry? Sure. But he will do what is in his heart to do. And yesterday at the poetry tea I was very proud of him. For an afternoon we shared a common dream. To express our thoughts from heart to paper to audience and have at least someone moved.

Here is his original poem he recited to two classrooms filled with nervous students and tea-drinking parents:

Beach Poem

Clearwater beach
not too hot
sand, water and shells
grainy, soft and wet
the sand and flowing water
crashing waves and the birds
running in the sand and
watching the sun go down
watermelon and salt water
tired and ready to go home.


“Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with shades of deeper meaning.” ―Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings



Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

The Knaw of the Teeth

Last night I dreamed I was in a pale white corridor. There was no one there except me and the lion. I heard voices in the distance but didn’t see who they belonged to. But I knew they were there, just ahead.

The lion and I were hungry. I had somehow found a rabbit and killed it as I held onto its cold, white fur. My waking self doesn’t eat rabbits, or any mammals for that matter. But I’m thinking this was pure survival.

I tossed the rabbit towards the lion. A grand, altruistic gesture. Just when I began to smile in self-gratification the lion leapt over the rabbit and lunged at me. His teeth dug instantly into my neck. I could feel his warm breath on my skin. His coat rubbed against me as if it were a soft, hairy blanket.

“This is it,” I thought. “This is the moment right before you die.”

I wanted to scream to the voices. But I knew there was no chance of me leaving the lion’s grip. There was nothing anyone could do even if they were to appear at that very moment. The moment that would be the end of my life.

I thought about the rabbit. And I wondered why the lion chose me instead. But in a flash I knew. The rabbit would be there after I was gone. And my being gone meant no competition for the lion. No threat.

In those final moments I was not angry at the lion. This was not personal. He was only following his instincts.

That is the nature of the beast.


Leave a comment

Filed under Weird Dreams


It comes in threes. That’s what I’ve always heard and that’s what we seem to experience when it comes to deaths. First it was Philip Seymour Hoffman. Now Harold Ramis. Who will be next? I dreamed last night there was only one remaining Beatle. I didn’t have an image of Ringo so it must have been Paul. I’m hoping this is not a prediction dream. I’m hoping it has to do with perseverance or honing in on my creativity or whatever the cerebral cortex is having me work through at 3am.

A few days before Hoffman died I watched The Big Lebowski. Hadn’t seen the film since it came out in ’98. It was even better than I remembered. I could relate to the main character “the Dude” played by Jeff Bridges in his passive way of dealing with the world and the fact that my choice of drink in the late 90’s was also a White Russian. Another facet I loved about this movie was the way Hoffman made this little sidekick character, a personal assistant named Brandt, a memorable part to this cult classic. It further reiterated what an intensely talented actor he was.


A few days before Ramis died I watched Ghostbusters, one of my favorite childhood movies of all time. I’d been craving to giggle to Bill Murray’s kooky Dr. Venkman and Harold Ramis’s droll witty nerd banter. I turned on the cable (which I rarely do anymore) and there was my early evening fun snack. I could recite every line in this movie and still crack up seeing a gigantor apocalyptic marshmallow man.


Lately I’ve been singing “Let it Be” to myself. A lot. I don’t think this is because one of the two of the fab four is gonna travel to his star in the sky. At least I hope not. It’s just a damn good song to sing. And the lyrics “When I find myself in times of trouble/ Mother Mary comes to me/ speaking words of wisdom/ let it be” and “When the broken hearted people/ living in the world agree/ there will be an answer/let it be” really ease the anxiety of many a despair-induced circumstance. And perhaps it gives some kind of solace when the question is asked, “Why did this person have to leave us so soon?”

All answers come in their own time. Although it can be grueling to wait for them. Do deaths always come in threes? I don’t know but it sure seems to happen that way. I’m hoping no more news is good news. These legends of film, theatre, screenwriting, songwriting, and music will always live on through their art. And they make the 3rd rock from the sun even brighter.


Filed under Weird Dreams