Unlimited Original Nocturnal Art

Dreaming in color, I see a red and a blue bird atop a white wooden fence between my home and my neighbor's. These are rare -- expensive -- birds wild and free in the suburbs.

They crane their necks to make eye contact with me and taunt me to record their presence on film. I run back inside my house to retrieve my camera and return to capture their images forever.
The birds have been joined by somebody's children who have also discovered these exotic birds loose and daring to fly away at any moment. The children oblige my request and leave me the space to frame only the birds.

The dream changes into something totally different. I'm walking down a dirt road that is framed on both sides by green trees at 70 feet high. As I'm walking, I encounter Jack Nicholson in "The Shining" and the view is all distorted.

I'm not in danger from him, but I move into another dimension of the dream and I am a spectator among 20 or more other people -- watching stunt motorcyclists jumping HUGE heights. I can see, at cloud level, what the motorcyclists see: the patchwork of farmfields and housing tracts and business districts intersected by roadways far below us.

Now a rider is dropping to the Earth after his jump has peaked. He is falling soooo far, I am deathly afraid it is impossible to survive the drop. I sense his safety is preserved as long as he can land on his motorcycle. As he nears the ground, he pushes away the motorcycle and pops out a parachute. Now, he is landing through the dense fog onto Hwy 880.

I am a spectator standing on the ground and see his parachute, which has now dream-morphed into an umbrella, and it is floating down without him. He has safely disappeared into the foggy mist. I catch the umbrella's handle and wait for the stunt rider, after he has landed, to climb the 17-foot sound wall to get to where we are all awaiting his arrival.

I am enveloped in this pulsing lucky feeling because I am the only spectator to have caught the parachute/umbrella and then . . . the . . . dream . . . d i s s o l v e s
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