I'm driving with my father. We're going up a forest hill; the forest is is damp, green, earthy—a northern place, european. The car's a Porsche Targa. I think I drive.
There's a problem as we near the top. We stop and get out, lift the bonnet and see the engine wasn't bolted on to the chassis: it's slipped off its moorings.
(in waking life, my father phoned me the next morning to ask if I wanted to go with him to a classic car meet; he's a member of the Porsche club)
2) Canoes in the cove.
It's me and another. We're inland, at some kind of shore—it's either a lake shore, or a secluded bay. It's not tropical, quite cool and brisk; like an Alaskan setting.
There's some kind of zombie outbreak, or other calamity that means we have to avoid other people at all costs. You see someone, you run, kind of thing. Paradoxically though, we aren't panicked and don't go haywire when we see some others at the shore (there's a sense we all used to be together). We just slip quietly into the waters and look for the boats/canoes and oars/paddles (there's also a sense that these boats and oars were the other group's).
My partner is in and away. I'm quietly wading in, the water is quite cold so I've got a good deal of clothes on, a bubble jacket the outermost layer. I find my rowboat and manage to board it; in doing so, however, some water has gotten in. I've also lost an oar.
I'm lying prone in the rowboat, so as not to alert the others on shore, and let it glide out a bit. I bump into a rock formation and end up behind it—it's safe to sit up and locate the missing oar. I look through the clear water, see the pebbles and sub-aqua base of the rock I'm hiding behind. The oar is nearby, I make my way over and take it; only to find the oar is tiny. I see another, another two in fact, inside a boat house, leant up against the wall; I take one. It's huge.
(the oars also seem to miraculously change design, the paddle face now has three wide open angular vents in it, it looks as though it wouldn't be much good for propulsion...)
I'm then in someone's house. I've been staying over, or came back here after the trip. I'm still wearing the same clothes as the previous episode. It seems as though we're all in the living room watching my previous exploits on the TV. The house is a grand old victorian one—just like the house I grew up in; but not the same. This one feels more imposing and like an "away" venue for me.
The others, children, are a little wary of me and play nice. A girl compliments my jacket (this bubble jacket is the same shade of olive as the North Face bubble jacket I had a very long time ago in University). The children's parents come in, and are also a little surprised I'm still there, and also a little wary of me—they seem very careful, they try to delicately "handle" me.
After some more time passes, my parents turn up—to pick me up. It's 2 a.m.: I've kept the family up all this time (almost like I was holding them hostage), and this was perhaps the reason everyone was so wary and a little freaked out. I had no idea it had gotten so late, and say "I only thought it was 8p.m., 10 at the latest." I wake.
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