Friday, April 07, 2006

Howard Hughs' UFO

Something from an earlier dream woke me up... something about a bear who had a terrible cut on its neck. There’s blood everywhere. “Yikes,” I said in the dream. “That’s pretty grizzly.” Bad dream pun.

Later... sleeping again...

My friend NG and I lay on our backs in the front yard looking at the stars. In the waking world you can’t see the stars on my city street, but the dream sky is pitch black and star spangled. The lawn has been recently mowed and smells like a wheatgrass juice bar.

We don’t have a telescope or binoculars, but we each have a glass from the kitchen cupboard. When you hold the glass to your eye, it works like a small telescope. We’re studying a fairly large orange fuzzy formation, about half the size of the moon. We’re thinking it must be a nebula or galaxy and we’re surprised at how well we can see it tonight. We agree that we’ve never noticed it before. Through our “telescopes” we can make out a spiral pattern of orange lights. NG says she thinks it’s a spiral galaxy.

It suddenly changes color and begins to flash a pattern of blue and tan lights... very odd and obviously artificial; not a natural formation.

Another friend shows up (JB) and I say to him, “Is that a UFO?”

“Sure is,” he replies.

The sky becomes solid, like a low black ceiling with fluorescent stars painted on it. The UFO is stuck to it and I wonder how. JB says it’s stuck there with little suction cups.

He reaches up and pulls it down. We’re quite surprised by this. It’s much smaller than we thought - about the size of a small plate. It’s also paper thin. JB folds it in half and says it’s part of a secret project run by Howard Hughes (!). He slips it into his shirt pocket and leaves.

I’m suddenly in a sort of bank lobby and NG is gone. There are black rubber mats on an old linoleum floor and room dividers about waist high made of scuffed up old fake wood formica. I realize it’s a newsroom and I’m a reporter interviewing Howard Hughes. Typewriters clatter in the background and somebody walks by with a steaming cup of coffee. Reporters sit at junky old desks, papers piled up everywhere, everyone’s smoking cigarettes.

“Do you deny the existence of this secret UFO program?” I demand.

“No, not at all,” Hughes replies. “We’ve been working on it for years.”

The phone rings and I wake up.

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