Flying Winnebago Dream

A few nights ago I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details:

I am part of a tour in rural Ireland. We approach a train station on foot that is situated on a grassy plain with beautiful, green, rolling hills in the distance. There are tall upstanding rune stones in the distance as well that call to mind Stonehenge, though the stones are not configured together in the same manner. Likely, there had been an elaborate maze of many more rune stones centuries ago, and this is all that remains. The terrain is ancient, and the rune stones ahead suggest a past largely lost to time. The sky is thickening and gray, and the overcast heavens contrast sharply with the intensely dark green earth that is all around us. There is a moist fog that chills our bones and intimates a vague disquiet.

Up ahead is a Winnebago parked on the grass beside a cobblestone trail that leads to an old train station. Several people separate out from the tour to step inside the Winnebago to investigate further. The rest of the tour except for me continues down the trail toward the station. I stand on the grass a safe distance away from the Winnebago and watch to see what if anything is going to happen.

Suddenly, without sound and without any noticeable fuel propulsion from the rear of the Winnebago, the vehicle ascends like a rocket. The Winnebago levels off a few thousand feet up off the ground, and then flies about the air like an acrobatic airplane showing off a number of death defying tilts, rises, and dives. Though it is putting on a great show, no one is paying attention but me.

Then, without warning, the Winnebago descends to the earth. It crashes exactly at the spot from where it had taken off. I sense that everyone inside is dead now, but I cannot observe anything in particular. The corpses are hidden in the cold, Irish fog. In seconds, they are as long gone as the vanished rune stones from centuries ago.

I walk passed the wreckage down the cobblestone trail. By the time I get to the old train station, the train has arrived. Though the station is an idyllic hint of the past, the train is a modern, sleek, supersonic ride that seems to have escaped from the future. I sense that the train came out of the fog suddenly, rather than roll up to the station on rust corroded tracks. Like the Winnebago the train does not make any sound, and for a moment I wonder if it is real, or if it is futuristic art. Everyone else has stepped inside the train, for they did not see nor hear the Winnebago crash to the earth. I step inside just before the door closes on me.

I find my designated seat inside the train. I recognized one of the women who stepped into the Winnebago as the wife of one of the men now seated inside this train. I cannot decide whether or not to tell him the bad news.

The train starts down the tracks. It is very soon moving forward at supersonic speed. As the tracks narrow and ascend high into the overcast sky, I feel more like I am seated on a futuristic Monorail moving on incredibly high tracks toward outer space. There are floor to ceiling windows everywhere, but there is not much to view inside this observation car but an endless expanse of thickening gray clouds. The weather outside worsens, and at one point the conductor announces over the intercom that he will need to reverse back down the narrow tracks to a safer spot until the storm has passed. The train stops at an incredibly steep angle, and then starts to descend along the tracks. With high winds now beating against the train from every direction, we are all afraid that we may be blown off of the tracks at any moment.

Notwithstanding my anxiety at this situation, I determine to locate the man whose wife had died inside of that Winnebago. I unbuckle my seatbelt and start to walk trepidatiously down the steep middle aisle. Because of the floor to ceiling windows everywhere I look at that moment, I sense that I am literally suspended within the heavens and walking on a tightrope down into the storm clouds below me. Still, I press on looking for that man amongst all the frightened faces before me. I awaken before finding him.

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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