Today is Saturday, October 16, 2010. At 6:45 a.m. this morning, I woke up, made some chamomile tea, and drank it at the computer where I checked my emails and answered some, made a brief pass over Facebook posts, and scanned The New York Times. I noticed an article announcing that Peter Jackson had finalized a deal to direct "The Hobbit."
At about 7:45, Judy my wife was getting up, while I was about to return to bed to sleep more after drinking a full mug of chamomile. By 8 a.m., I was in bed asleep. I woke up around 10 a.m., walked out into the living room, greeted Judy again, then walked to the kitchen and fixed some coffee. I took my coffee to the computer and looked at my home, The New York Times. It hit me like a brick. There on the front page was a bird's eye shot of an area in New York, where there were buildings and green tress. One of the most powerful lucid dreams that I have ever had in my life came back to me in a flash, jump stared by the photo of the cover of the The New York Times.
I turned to my wife Judy, who was writing in her diary on the couch and I said, "I had a dream this morning that I was dead. It was the most lucid powerful dream I have ever had," I told her. She put her diary down. "I was floating between earth and space. I was alone. There was nobody around."
Then, I told her my dream: I was in this city scape that like run-down desolate landscape of grayish buildings with faded color. Drab. I walked in this lost vacuum searching for anyone, then I traveled at will to another place, like earth, a holding place. There were people but they did not see me, then I returned to the desolate semi-urban world, again completely alone. There was like a waste dumping ground in the middle of nowhere; it was made of drab colors and felt dead. I felt the death in the area and the lanscape. I was searching, not understanding, but it was so real, so lucid, so multi-dimensional (beyond three dimensions); and then, magnificent color came all around and people started appearing as I walked. They were in houses, rooms with enormous windows that had radiant light streaming in; people were walking outside together, eating, talking, they were even lined up sitting on the ground with their backs up against the fence waiting to play tennis next on one of two back-to-back courts. There were happy people everywhere. Nobody spoke with me, but I felt at home there with the color, the dimension, the people. Something drew me to follow a sidewalk through the buildings and benches, so I did. I walked through the winding sidewalk, around the buildings, and inside one of the buildings that felt like very few people went there. It drew me forward. The concrete, the buildings and level landscape disappeared when I arrived at the back of a building which was like a a drab apartment building. Before me was a voluminous canyon like the Grand Canyon, but it was filled with rich vegetation and trees and trees and trees as far as I could see. The color was magnificent. I felt the color and volume in my very being. Then, a flock of nearly a thousand birds flew across the great divide of the canyon. And I watched them.
Nine hours later at 5:22, I was channel surfing and saw a film on HBO, "THE LOVELY BONES." I read the description. Stanley Tucci. I remember the press about the book, which was a New York Times best seller and the release of the film. I did not read book, nor did I see the film. I did not even know what the film was about. So I thought, "wow, I am going to watch this, we missed it at the theaters." Judy was at the computer, and we could not put clothes in because someone else was washing. So why not? Innocent.
The first few minutes passed by in the film. After a three to four minutes, I knew that whoever directed it was a brilliant director. (not until the end did I realize that it was Peter Jackson, and that Steven Spielberg had exec produced it). Then, it happened. The main character Suzie Salmon was murdered and she was telling the story. She was dead! There were a series of subjective images from her pov and perspective. I sat on the edge of the couch and leaned toward the HDTV in complete disbelief and shock. The images in the film were my dream. I screamed out to Jude, "These images in the film is what I dreamed this morning when I came out here and told you that 'I dreamt I was dead.'" I had dreamt between the earth and the moon, an object in my hand floating in space that I had let and was trying to reach caught between two worlds in space. I dreamt and felt a drab world, empty, alone, searching, a waste dump site, colorful landscape appearing where people dissolved into it. And flocks of birds flying in the same exact formation as the film.
My dream and the film were the same. I felt the same. I was not just external images, but internal feelings, confusions, searching. And I dreamt my dream 9 hours before the film.
I did not know the story, had never read nor heard the story, the images, the characters before 5:22 p.m. on October 16, 2010 when I sat down on the couch and flipped to HBO.
