February 8, 2014
My husband, Stinger, and I are in a house planning to meet up with a woman we know. It’s not our waking reality home. I walk into one of the rooms, and he tells me to turn on the lights in the hope that she’ll see them and know where we are. One of the lamps is like one I have at home in my study, and I decide to turn off the bigger brighter one as that seems safer. Everything looks and feels very real; I’m positive I’m awake. My purse is on the dresser, and I fish my little black address book out of it, intending to call the woman… The next thing I remember is standing in the middle of a crowded pub. Stinger is on the phone with a man who works at the restaurant-bar our female friend works at. I can hear both sides of the conversation. The man is telling Stinger that Annie can’t come to the phone now, she’s busy working… Some time later, I’m in the same pub, or perhaps a different more brightly lit one. I look around me, and consider asking one of the many smiling relaxed people what the name of the pub is. But that seems silly. I notice a wooden sign on the wall and distinguish the letters GW and maybe NYTH, although I can’t be sure. I spot a bathroom and walk into it.
A woman enters the single stall before me, so I decide to use the toilet outside it. As I’m sitting on it, I become aware of a man in uniform overalls, of an indistinct blue-gray color. Apparently, this us a unisex bathroom. The man is accompanied by a large black dog. I notice him because he’s suddenly too close, and then it’s obvious he’s deliberately pretending to look into another stall so he can rub up against me. I remember this happening a few times before. Having finished my business, I get up and tell him, “Stay away from me, you’re just too horny!” I move over to the sink and look at my reflection in the mirror. I am not Maria Isabel Pita. I am a completely different woman. This does not surprise me, and I lean toward the glass to better examine the dark circles beneath my-her eyes. Wow, they are really black! This woman is not well. I wonder if this means I too am suffering from some hidden illness, but the face is not mine, and the skin beneath her eyes is not only black but oddly wrinkled and scaled, almost reptilian. Is this some kind of deliberate make-up she has applied to accentuate her eyes? I study her short darkhair, which is full enough that she can artfully pin it up here and there in a sort of retro style. She has small, dainty features, and is very slender. She’s not bad looking, but definitely past her prime. She is resigned about this, but still rather proud of her looks. On her-my way out of the bathroom, we pass the man with the dog and warn him, “If you come near me again, I’ll call the police.”
Outside the pub now, I join a stream of pedestrian traffic. It’s night time, but the city is brimming with life. I pause for a moment. The mall-like facade on my left is not where I want to go. I walk quickly and purposefully in the opposite direction, sensing my destination is not too far away. I’m very conscious of my tight jacket and pants and high-heeled boots, and of my confident, sexy stride. I still have a really great figure even if I am a little older now. I pass the man in the overalls, who now appears to be fishing through a garbage can. I, Maria, not the woman whose body I’m inhabiting, sense this man’s hostile focus on her, and the danger she put herself in by angering him. She is very sure of herself, she believes she can fight him off if he ever dares lay hands on her. But I’m concerned for her because I somehow know he plans to follow her, and if he catches her somewhere in the dark, and alone, it will be bad. As we keep walking, she-me delight in being surrounded by people all out for a good time. This pedestrian walkway is well lit, and I clearly see the pale face of a rather attractive blonde man, which somehow confirms to me that I’m somewhere in Europe. It’s a nice change from living out in the country, and I’m thinking how much I’m enjoying visiting a city for a while, when I phase out of the dream.
I woke up trying to make sense of this dream, which was incredibly vivid and, I felt, important because of the way I phased out of it as I tend to do after a semi-lucid or a lucid dream. It happened around 3:00 in the morning, which is unusually early.
In the dream, I was trying to get in touch with someone in the dream space whose name reminded me of an old bartender acquaintance. The name of the woman I inhabited in the dream may be, or sound like, Annie, and she may work in a pub or restaurant. She definitely looks like the woman I saw reflected in the mirror, and she lives in a city. She is in some kind of danger from a man who is stalking her. This man may be homeless and/or he may be accompanied by a large dog. Or this dog, which made me think of a police dog, may indicate he already has a record, perhaps as a sex offender. She may live near a restaurant pub the name of which begins with G.
I have to wonder why I picked up on this woman at all. There are many possibilities. I will probably never know. But the experience seems to reinforce the concept of parallel lives, because I was consciously myself, Maria Isabel Pita, and yet I was also this other woman at the same time. Looking in a mirror and seeing someone else, even while retaining your own conscious identity, is an uncanny experience. I felt detached from the woman, and yet I could sense much of what she was feeling. Perhaps one reason I had this dream is because I’m increasingly aware of how Maria Isabel Pita isn’t who I really am but only one of countless possible reflections of my soul. I imagine my soul feels about my current personality as I did about the woman I saw in the mirror, I was her and yet I wasn’t, I was more, an awareness that both inhabited her and transcended her, and was aware of what might happen to her.
Maybe one day some woman might read this dream and recognize herself in it? Anything is possible. It’s an intriguing mystery why I so vividly saw and experienced myself as someone else for a time, someone I sensed was in danger of being hurt.