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Salvidor Dali, Persistence of Memory |
When he was ten years old, he said he had what he calls the “pop corn machine dream.” He was living in Hawthorne, California, at the time. Back then the area was almost out in the sticks, no sidewalks, brush, tumbleweeds. He woke up -- or, as he put it, he dreamt he woke up -- to see a craft outside his window. He went on board, where he saw a machine that “smelled like popcorn, and it reminded me of one of those popcorn machines.”
“I knew they were aliens, and they weren’t good. Over my life, of all the dreams I’ve had about aliens, they’ve never been good in any of them. They’ve been all about bad, or Trickster at best.” (To this day he talks about how he hated living out there, moving from the Hollywood area to live in the middle of nowhere.
This could probably be chalked up to being a kid, and suddenly uprooted from friends and school. But I wonder if some of this intense dislike has something to do with his “alien” experiences.)
I told him I rarely see aliens in my dreams. (But then I immediately remembered my “Geisha Woman” dream of the tall female gray being; where I found myself on board, sitting across a tall “gray” female with black hair.) He said “I have. They’re usually human looking, but alien nonetheless. I just know they’re aliens. I don't’ think I’ve ever had gray aliens, specifically, but I have had insectoid aliens, giant preying mantis kind of things.” (When he said that, I almost fell out of the chair!)
He continued: “You never see them completely, but more like parts of them, and they appear in parts, revealing themselves slowly. I never see the whole thing.”
“Do you still have alien dreams?” I asked him.
“Yeah, occasionally.”
“I don’t have bad dreams or scary dreams that often, but when I do, they’re about aliens. Whatever it is I’ve been seeing all my life, it hasn’t been good,” he said again. (Regan Lee, July 2007, Trickster's Realm at Binnall of America.)
Jim and I are in one of my dreamscapes; this one is the slightly ghost-townish neighborhood of asphalt lots, weeds, alleys, run down houses, wide slightly crumbling streets with businesses that just seem tired. Not sure why we're here, but here we are. I think we were looking for someplace and got a little lost, or we have to pass through here to get to wherever.Now I wrote that this has nothing to do with UFOs, and I'm not suggesting for one moment that the dream does have anything to do with UFOs. But it didn't occur to me until I started typing here into my bloggie dashboard that the house in the dream, on Corning St., was where I had my "Patio Alien" experience.
I find that we're in the backyard of my house on Corning St. in L.A. I lived in that house when I was very young. The backyard was weedy and had tall grass and a brick decorative well (I think it was decorative) and then, after the wooden fence, the alley. We go across the alley and some people in the large barn like building the people stop us. We assure them that "I used to live there," pointing to the yard behind me, and that fact makes it okay for us to pass.
We're standing around in a huge hanger like barn type interior. No furniture or anything at all, except a few people. The few people are all farmers, and not just farmers, but stereotypes, cartoons of rural farmers. They're dressed in overalls and baseball style caps with John Deere logos, chewing on long stalks of straw and saying things like "Yep, it's a gonna rain, I reckon!" Ridiculous. More ridiculous since this is in the middle of L.A.
The only other thing in here with us besides the farmers, are cows and bulls. Tons of cows and bulls. We're all standing around them, the cattle are in the middle. No stalls; the cows and bulls are just free, milling around a bit.
Suddenly we hear a rumbling and it gets dim. The farmers say "Oh, damn! Looks like they're here, we're going to have to go down!" (Who or what "they" are, no idea.) And the entire barn like hangar room, cows and people, start to do down into the ground. Some kind of mechanism allows the whole building to go down into the ground, to hide, and on the surface, no one would know there was a building there.
So down we go, like riding in an elevator. Cows and farmers are calm, though a bit annoyed by the inconvenience. Jim and I however are freaked.
Drawing of Patio Alien on Corning St, L.A. Calif. 1958? by Regan Lee |