Dream: Living with Lady Love LUCID

Dream 20021205, 7:00 AM:

This dream begins with me married to an amazing, vibrant woman. She has curly dark hair, and wears it pulled back most of the time in a ponytail. She does *everything* – I know that she’s an actress, I think she’s also a doctor, and she races cars. At one point, she is talking about being typecast – this guy is trying to guide her career, and she is reading a letter or review, and scoffing at the guidance he is trying to give her. It is something about how now she has done this one particular film, if she can mellow gracefully through a couple of other films (he refers to a particular type, but I don’t remember what kind) that then she’ll be ready for more mature roles. She just laughs at the analysis. I remember her getting out of a racing car, and walking along talking about the movie thing.

Then, I’m in a house with her, and I know that it’s our house, and it’s very ornate and full of cool artifacts. They’re art pieces of all different kinds. It reminds me of being inside the Barking Frog. There are all kinds of unusual ethnic artifacts. She is explaining that it’s such a shame that I had to die. I say, “What?” and she says that she was able to tell what was going to happen, and I was going to die. She said, “Yeah, it’s right after I do the thing with painting the table cloth, and you keep trying to mix tar into sawdust, and it catches fire and kills you.” I tell her that I don’t want to die, and so I’m going to avoid the tar and sawdust, and she just shrugs, like it’s inevitable. She goes and starts doing a process of painting the tablecloth, and I know that it will preceed my dying, and it upsets me. She’s painting it with something like a square floor brush, but instead of bristles it has these little round points, and when she dips into the paint and transfers to the cloth, each one makes a little grid of dots. She is just stippling back and forth to the paint. The table cloth is spread out over the top of a buffet, and that’s where she’s painting it. The cloth is cream, and she’s painting it with a rusty orange color. She seems very set on the fact that I’m going to die, but doesn’t seem at all upset about it. I don’t feel as OK about it, and I keep asking her to stop painting. She turns, and throws a long pointed stick at me. We start having this complicated kind of desparate-feeling battle, stabbing at one another with the long wooden sticks. She is throwing little heavy bronzes at me, and I have a wooden pitchfork, and I’m batting them away with it so that they don’t hit me. Finally, I hit her with one of the sticks – I either poke her with it or throw it – and she doesn’t die, just keeps on fighting. After I’ve hit her two or three different times, she starts changing shape, becomes like an odd-shaped caricature doll, like a doll of a cartoon figure, wearing a purple-red dress which is stuffed. Her face is horrific, lots of teeth.

Then, a transition – I’m in a greenhouse with a group of people. I see these odd lizards, and I remember that I’ve seen them before and a name for them pops into my mind, and then a little boy says the name – it’s something like Jelleels, or Jilelles. He picks one up, on a stick. They look like they’re made of foam, but they’re real. The guide is glad that the boy recognized them. Some are yellow, some are green. I also saw a little lizard in a cage that looks like a tropical chameleon. Then, somebody is talking about the price of a book they have; he said he was going to offer $20 for it, but it’s like a $300 book, and he thinks the offer would be too low. I think the book is about orchids or bromeliads.

Then, somehow, I’m back in the house that I own with the lady. Except that it’s not the same, and she’s not the same either. It seems like we’re not fighting now, and she hasn’t died. We are standing around the dining table, and around the table behind the chairs are these little round flat drums that look like tambourines, and these little ball-shaped bells. She taps one of the drums with her toe and it makes a very resonant tone, and then she jogs the bell with her foot so that it jingles. She’s explaining that it’s a dinner music type experience, and you get someone to come around and play the drums and bells with their feet while you dine. The playing looks like a dance. I say something about, “So, the monks are going to come and dance for us while we eat?”

I am looking around the house at all the artwork. It looks like a gallery or shop, with things displayed on the tables and everywhere. The woman doesn’t seem to be here now, but there are two men here, and I think they’re partners. One of them is talking to the other about whether he has any antiques or other items that he wants to donate to the museum. Apparently part of our collection is a museum, but they’re mixed in with the art items for sale. They are on display as well. There are lots of different styles and kinds – stained glass, sculpture, furniture, pictures. One of the guys is rubbing his hair, running his fingers through his hair, trying to think; his partner keeps asking him if he wants to donate. I explain that she has four separate businesses or accounts – one for the museum, one for the shop, one for her artwork, and one other one – I don’t remember now what that one is. Then, she’s here, and we’re fighting again – the guys are gone. I start breaking things, and I’m trying to get her upset, but I don’t know why. I pick up these little rock balls that are sitting on the tables and throwing them at mirrors and pieces of glass work and shattering them. I break a couple of large mirrors, then this beautiful huge window that is opalescent with shades of ruby and green, like a soap bubble. The moon is out, and was shining through it. In this part of the dream, the woman has blondish hair in a chin-length bob, looks different, but seems like the same person inside. Reminds me [after waking] of Lauren Hutton.

Then, I’m in a long public transport vehicle like a bus or train. I’m sitting down, and she comes in and gets on the bus and walks over to where I’m sitting. I say that I don’t want to keep fighting. I say, ‘I need to make this a *lucid* dream, so I’ll remember what’s going on.” I look at her and say, “So what are you? What do you represent?” and she spreads her hands out, shrugs, and says, “I’m Love.” She seems very matter-of-fact. I ask her, “Why did I want to call you Lauren?” She says she doesn’t know. I decide that I need to write this down so that I’ll remember it, and I grab a piece of paper and write down “Lauren” on it, and I see on the piece of paper that I had previously written “Jeanette,” and I think that her name was Jeanette in the earlier part of the dream. I didn’t talk to her much, but it seemed to be so helpful to figure out what she represented in the dream. I don’t understand the fights or the symbolism. I sit there on the bus, with my arm around her shoulders, and she’s wearing a white fuzzy sweater and she has a big soft chest. We just sort of hang out, as the bus is going along, our knees turned a little toward one another where we sit, so that we’re not cuddling, but sitting close, and then I wake up, my heart pounding.

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