The nightmare before Manchester

Posted on June 25, 2017 by angelacwatford

Dream:

This place is huge. Blacks and grays surround me from the wings as I stand in an open space, stage right. The mood is busy and focused. A crew of stagehands cross the black floor carrying chords and gear in preparation for an event – maybe a ceremony? The venue is flooded with light overhead – open and airy as if we are outside on a cloudy morning.

I think of the possibilities. Perhaps this is a graduation ceremony, or a time and place to honor a special individual. Maybe this will be the place of a great speech. Positivity is in the air. At least until I see… them.

Far beyond the stage, I witness evil “beings” like chess pieces taking their seats, lining up with anticipation for something I cannot even begin to imagine. These satanic creatures file one-by-one through an opening in a low brick wall of protection that resembles a jury box with two rows of three seats.

One of them is a rook, a little castle with glowing yellow eyes. It takes the front-row middle seat. Another is a man with a long black cloak. He lets the hood drape over his head casting shadows, dark as night, over his face. He stands over the third figure – what looks to be an atom, translucent with tiny lights swirling and moving around it in a knot.

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The group is waiting patiently for the atom to finish forming in its place. They are nearly ready… but for what? Something satanic, something purely evil and sinister. I can feel it with all of my soul.

I look away before identifying the other three beings. I am too overwhelmed with rage and fear scanning the room for answers. They should NOT be here!

A man approaches and sits down before me with knees crossed on the floor, ready to talk about what they have planned. Wearing short-sleeves and a wide smile, his trimmed black hair and sideburns frame his face. His eyes are open and large with heavy eyebrows raised as if he is eagerly waiting for the answer to a question. He seems pretty excited and proud of himself.

Before he can utter any words, I openly scold him with a righteous rebuke that could cut with a sword.

“I know what you’re doing here! You’re not going to get away with this, and the POWER of GOD IN HEAVEN will rain FIRE upon you!”

I watch his pupils dilate like windows opening to reveal the black-hole within him. I take this as an invitation to reprimand his soul directly. He silently pulls back letting the silly smirk on his face turn over as words that I do not even recall ever having in my bones spew out of my mouth. Words of condemnation and wrath. By the frightened look on his face, I can tell that he has never heard these particular words before.

The rook, motionless and mute, looks at me from across the room.

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Everyone looks. I know they hear me… but I will not be silenced. I shout louder so all of the creatures can hear about the coming judgement upon their heads!

Something shoves me out of the scene like a door slamming in my face. Everything disappears in a cloudy mist.

—

My eyes blink slowly and redirect me to a new place – a small, sunlit-white bedroom. I’m resting comfortably on a twin bed donned with fluffy white down comforters that cradle my body. It feels like a Saturday morning.

On the wall above my feet, there’s a non-working mahogany wall clock. It must be an antique – maybe mid 19th century. Clean white face, dark wood curves – I squint my eyes and try to make out the time, but for some reason, I just can’t grasp it. To my surprise and enjoyment, my dad walks through the door on the right and carefully takes the clock off the wall. He sits down beside me and turns it over.

“We’ve got to fix this thing. I’m resetting it to November 11.”

Holding its plug into a bowl of salt, he recharges the clock and sets the dial. Perfect.

Waking life:

On May 22, 2017, around 7 am PDT I awoke from this terrible nightmare with so many questions. The answers came later that evening. What I believe I witnessed was the evil preparation before the Manchester Arena bombing.

The days that followed were filled with sadness and grief. Seeing images of the perpetrator’s face still sends chills up my spine due to his strong resemblance to the man I scolded in the dream. The only consolation I feel after all of this is knowing that I tried my best to condemn the evil, but there’s only so much one can do while dreaming – even in a lucid state. In waking life, all we have is prayer.

The Abominable Spider

Posted on October 31, 2014 by angelacwatford

Dream:

Behind the old green hedges that line my childhood home, I crouch down and let the branches of dry leaves surround me until I’m hidden like a tiny bird. I catch a glimpse of dew drops glistening on a freshly spun spider web, and realize that I’m most certainly destined to encounter the owner of this intricate creation. As quickly as the thought enters my mind, the creature appears silently and alert – a hairy beast of a spider (nearly the size of my hand) resembling the Abominable Snowman with eight legs and huge fangs. Oh brother!

My mind keeps telling me to pull back and run, but for some reason I can’t resist the urge to poke at it – as if this Abominable Spider is actually a chubby baby’s cheek begging for a squeeze. With my index finger extended, I creep closer inch by inch in what feels like a never-ending stand-off. The magnetic attraction of the spider continues to draw me in until I’m dangerously too close. OUCH!!!! (Wow, I clearly have horrible reflexes to go along with my bad judgment in this dream.)

I feel a burning pinch on the underside of my forearm where the spider’s fangs puncture my skin. In an instant, the retched perpetrator scurries off never to be seen again, leaving me to bleed in terror. Immediately I can feel numbness in my arm beginning to spread from the wound as my entire limb changes from flesh tones to various shades of purple and black. I stumble out of the bush and, with every ounce of strength I can muster, drag my self to the front porch of the house and crash through the front door. Family and friends crowded in the living room gasp in horror as I collapse into a ball on the carpet.

“Take me to the hospital!” I demand. “The venom is spreading to my heart!” A stranger picks me up and places me on a flatbed dolly as the scenery morphs into a hospital corridor. The pressing weight of death bears down on my chest as I give up all strength and lie limp on the cold metal. The man pulls me along, coasting through the sterile hospital hallways as wind from each swinging door splashes me in the face like cool water. Through the last set of doors, we enter a bright open room when I notice a toddler sitting on the tile floor, completely alone and uncared for.

“STOP!” I shout and the cart screeches to a halt. How can this child be left alone out here? I’m appalled and terrified that her parents are nowhere to be found. As I reach my one good arm out, the baby eagerly crawls over to me and climbs on my chest to get a closer look at this passing atrocity. She stares at me with a piercing concern for my well-being and a pacifier in her mouth. Her shiny black eyes are an ocean of wisdom as she places her hand on my shoulder. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m not here to rescue this child… she is here to comfort me. At this moment, I’m surrounded by warmth and love. I know in my heart that everything is going to be ok.

Some dreams cannot be ignored

Posted on January 2, 2014 by angelacwatford

Waking life:

If there ever is a time that I don’t feel like writing, it’s usually after a nightmare. I apologize for stepping away from the keyboard recently, but I haven’t been able to wrap my head around a series of disturbing, confusing and down right horrifying dreams. It’s only natural that since I dream every night, they won’t all be about rainbows, lollipops and butterflies. But when the inevitable happens, I just can’t bring myself to write it down in detail. Each dream is a unique experience that often feels very real, and can affect me emotionally more than some waking life events. I choose not to relive those moments much like we all try to forget certain events in the past.

My intentions usually are to ignore the messages and mentally delete them as quickly as possible; however, sometimes the dreams poke and prod at my memory – refusing to be shoved aside like yesterday’s leftovers.

The question always is, how should I deal with nightmares?

It’s hard to know sometimes if one night’s sleep is just a random fleeting moment, or if there really is a meaning to it all. I’d love to tell you that I have a scientific formula for dealing with this stuff, but that would be a blatant lie. Usually, I just try to move on with my life and if anything unusual happens, I can look back and make the connection. Unfortunately, this doesn’t always work out well. In the case of one dream, my tendency to ignore potentially psychic messages was exercised at a loved one’s expense.

In that dream, someone special and particularly close to me was extremely distraught, crying in anguish over an illness and the pressing thought of dying. It broke my heart to the very core to see her this way. After waking, I immediately called to check-in and make sure she was ok. To my surprise, she did not seem upset at all, rather she told me that everything was fine. I believed her and decided that the dream was meaningless. It wasn’t until a month later that she revealed to me that she had been severely depressed and actually couldn’t stop crying for weeks. This prompted her doctor to prescribe some much-needed medication.

It occurred to me that what I witnessed while asleep was in fact happening in waking life, and whether she wanted to tell me about it or not, I still found out. If I had listened to the message in the dream or pressed harder for information, I feel that I could have been more supportive to one of the most important people in my life. I’m ashamed that I ignored this dream, and as always, I am learning from my mistakes – even if the only thing I could have done was provide a shoulder to cry on.

Not all is lost, though. This person is doing much better now, and I am especially sympathetic to her situation after having seen her in this dream. Maybe I was never meant to change the outcome, but simply understand and empathize with someone who I love so dearly.

A recipe for adventure

Posted on November 10, 2013 by angelacwatford

Dream:

At the edge of a cliff, three of us suit up and piece together our harnesses and buckles for a hang gliding adventure. The rocks and smooth pebbles crunch under our feet as we prepare for a massive jump into the crystal blue lagoon below.

Are we ready? Yes! We nod at each other, fasten our belts and give it a running start. Like children diving into a pool, we push off the edge of the cliff with all of our energy. Our bodies, supported by our man-made wings, lift into the air and soar above the cove weightless and free! The rush is so incredible as we drift high over the earth and circle back to the water, readying ourselves for a perfect landing.

I let out a short laugh, swallow a huge breath and plunge feet-first into the abyss. My gear causes no trouble as I quickly unhook myself and shed my wings. One after the other, my friends drop into the water and we race back to land like dolphins. In reality, I’m not a great swimmer, but there are no limitations here as I push forward with a perfect stroke and reach the shore.

The three of us agree that this is the coolest experience ever when suddenly we hear music and laughing. Once out of the water, we follow the sounds and are greeted by a gorgeous Indian woman wearing a yellow sari with a bright pink scarf. Her eyes are captivating and match perfectly with her scarlet lips and flowing black hair.

“Can you believe this? It’s simply wonderful – I can’t wait to find out what’s on the third floor,” she says. I don’t catch her name, though her bubbling personality screams that she most definitely is an extrovert and already knows us without needing to ask. The woman gestures for us to follow her toward a stone building as the sound of Tablas and Sitars grows louder, luring and inviting us to visit the Indian festival inside. At the entrance, she charismatically begins speaking with perfect strangers and wanders off to ask a gentleman for information about the third floor. There must be something pretty fantastic up there.

Moving forward past a seasoned crowd of shoppers, we cram into the building through a small open door and push our way to the front of a showroom where a cooking demonstration is taking place. A young Korean woman begins her class on how to make Honey Mustard Sticky Rice. Wow! This sounds good…

One cup of honey
One cup of mustard
A large bowl of rice (possibly 8 servings)

The girl casually sings a mysterious song as she mixes the ingredients together in a clear Pyrex bowl. She scoops the rice into individual servings and tops each bowl with sesame seeds and chopped green onions. I seriously can’t wait to make this when I wake up!

Another airport nightmare

Posted on October 25, 2013 by angelacwatford

Dream:

“WHAT did you say?” I repeated while staring down the sassy airline attendant behind the customer service desk. Pretending to be partially deaf, I leaned in closer to her crimson blazer as if it were a microphone. My hearing wasn’t the issue. I heard her clearly the first two times and didn’t care for her tone, so I dared her to repeat it one more time.

“WHAAT?” The hairs stood up on the back of my neck as I prepared myself for an all out verbal assault.

“The International Hotel!” she snapped and her devilish brown eyes bulged out of her head like a goldfish.

Several less-than-amused passengers from my flight impatiently tapped their feet and checked their watches, waiting in line for their turn to receive the same abuse. Apparently, all of our luggage was not only missing, but somehow transported to an International Hotel some unknown distance away from the airport. At least I think that’s what she said.

(Waking life note: I find it interesting that, at this point in the dream, I realized that I could not recall what she said, because there was no memory of it in the dream. It seemed as though the past did not exist – there was only the present. Upon waking, I could only recall that the last two words she spoke which were “International Hotel.” This could be an ongoing lucid dreaming experiment. Stay tuned!)

After seeing this woman nearly self destruct behind the counter, I decided not to cause any more of a scene. I picked up my carry-on which contained something well worth the attention. My beloved dog, Bear. He had traveled with me on the flight, and was the only comfort I had in this overcrowded airport. I reached into my bag and pulled Bear to my heart, then cradled him in my arms. “Oh Bear, how are we going to get out of this mess?” His calm temperament and soft, mink like fur kept me from losing my cool. Luckily for us, there was a shuttle outside waiting to hustle us along to the International Hotel. The only choice we had was to catch that bus on time.

A visit from a long-lost friend

Posted on September 20, 2013 by angelacwatford

Dream:

There’s nothing quite like resting my head on this pillow. My eyes scan the room in the dark as a light from the street fills the space enough for me to interpret where I am. This is exactly how I remember spending nights in my childhood bedroom when all the world was asleep. This place where I grew up is now long gone, but it still houses countless memories, and I’m excited to see it exactly the way it was when I left.

To my surprise, my husband wakes up beside me. In waking life, he’s never seen this place and I couldn’t be happier to share the experience. We carry on a light conversation about our days until we’re interrupted by the sound of an animal scratching outside my bedroom window. I wonder if it is who I think it is…

My heart leaps in anticipation as I toss the covers aside and race to the back door. Still in the dark I can see there is a security alarm pad bolted to the wall. Shoot, I don’t know the pass code. My eyes well up at the thought of my long-lost companion unable to escape the cold backyard.

Just like in the old days, my mom hustles into the kitchen, flips on the lights and cheerfully greets me with a smile. “Angie! You must have heard Milo too. He’s already inside,” she consoles.

He curiously appears at my feet; my Siamese cat, a best friend that I loved and raised in my youth. It’s been nearly a decade since he passed away, but here he is now, swirling about with his tail high. He jumps onto the kitchen table so that I can get a closer look. (He never was allowed on the table when he was alive, but I’m certain that Mom doesn’t care now.)

The reunion alone is entirely too much fun to bear. We share a moment of affection as I scratch his head, smush his fluffy cheeks and rattle his ears the way I used to. I surely didn’t forget how much I love the way his eyes close when he meows, or how his purr rolls through my ears as we nuzzle our noses together.

All eyes are on Milo as my mom and I, now joined by my stepdad, shower him with attention. He jumps off the table, back to his old tricks, and begins tearing into a bag of his favorite cat food. My goodness, it’s so rejuvenating to see him – I never want to leave!

Be true to yourself

Posted on September 11, 2013 by angelacwatford

Waking life:

I admit that I haven’t been true to myself over the last few years. I’ve been bottling up my dreams of writing poetry, songs and stories and sharing them with others. As a child, I can remember spending hours dreaming and writing without constraint – without the responsibilities and pressures of the real world to drown out my creativity. Now that I’m an adult, I’ve become so focused on working to survive that my personal time has suffered, and I’ve been too exhausted and overwhelmed by life to enjoy it.

A dear friend recently told me that she actually liked one of my dream posts (I was surprised that anyone read it), and she encouraged me to keep writing. This is the same person who, in my dream True Colors, tattooed a mural on my legs. She forced me to recognize what I love to do, and gave me a way to express myself with a permanent display of colors and ideas for everyone to see. The drawings represented a part of me that I could no longer hide and it was an amazing relief to let it show.

Do you have a hidden talent or passion that you’d like to share with others?

Sometimes we just need a bit of encouragement from our respected friends to move forward with our goals. It’s also equally as important to provide emotional support to our friends. In this way, I’d like to extend my own support to you. Please know that you can and you should do what makes you happy as long as it doesn’t include harming or stepping on someone else to get what you want. That’s not what I’m talking about. To put it simply – just be yourself.

As my father once told me, “Never depend on anyone but yourself to make you happy.” You alone know what brings you joy in life and nobody else can figure this out for you. I’ve realized that after years of suppressing my own passion for writing, I was not being true to myself. Now, I am determined to make my dreams a reality and I hope that you can do the same.

Best wishes and sweet dreams!

True colors

Posted on September 3, 2013 by angelacwatford

Dream:

“She’s such a great friend,” I said to myself. “She knows me so well.” This friend was tattooing vibrant red and pink roses down both of my shins. She chuckled before carefully coloring in a mural of wavy ocean lines to cover every patch of skin with ink. Down the outside of my right leg, bottle cap sized purple flowers were joined together by a single green vine. On the inside calf, a large yellow Möbius Strip wrapped around itself endlessly like a figure 8. There was no pain from the needle, but I guess that’s just a benefit of dreaming, right? I can’t believe she did this. I love it!

Ready to show off my new tatts, I jumped up and thanked her with a giant bear-hug. My flounce skirt was the perfect complement to the flowers and colors as I began to skip around the room. Wait ’till I show my husband!

In an instant, he appeared staring at my legs with a hand to his head, scratching his wavy golden locks.

“Wow,” he uttered, not wanting to show any sign of disapproval. I could tell he was supportive of my decision, but he wasn’t used to seeing me this way. Did I mention that I’ve never had a tattoo in my life? And there I stood before him with permanently decorated stems not wanting to admit that perhaps I could have just gotten a single tattoo of a butterfly or a Japanese word. Instead I went for a full pair of wildly loud leggings that could never be changed.

“What are you going to do about work?”

Hmm… I hadn’t really thought about it. My husband is usually my voice of reason, and he knows all too well that my corporate wardrobe includes a myriad of pencil skirts and pumps. Well, seeing as the dress code at work does not allow me to have tattoos, I guess I’ll be switching to pants.

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