Driving a Car with Brique Affinée.

I am driving fast on curving roads at night. This car is controlled by a white oval knob on top of the dashboard. I find it easiest to operate when I work it with a piece of French cheese. This is a very particular cheese, a creamy gourmand delight called brique affinée. It's shaped like a thin brick, and I use the edge on the knob, pressing hard when I want to work the brakes. 

Feelings: Amused. 

Reality: I usually eat brique affinée when I teach in southern France, where my wonderful translator introduced me to it. Made in very traditional style by Vieux Pané, it is nonetheless a fairly recent arrival on the immense French cheeseboard.

Intention: My intention for dreams last night was simple: "I want to have some fun in my dreams and then have more fun talking about them and creating from them." This tasty scene, one of many, seems to be a direct response. Not quite as much fun as other dreams from last night, of a new kitten tickling the back of my neck, and of swimming in the warm turquoise waters or a lagoon at a mermaid beach. However, I am always happy to talk about cheese!

Action: I shall certainly want to eat some brique affinée when I lead my dream teacher training near Montpellier in October.

Driving Up to 80: a possible end-of-life dream

I drive into an immense walled space. The walls rise for many stories. In front of me is what appears to be a giant speedometer, hanging on the wall like a clock. I know my way forward requires me to drive straight up the wall and that I need to choose a place on the dial to aim for. I think 100 is too much, so I aim nearer 80.

    I floor the gas pedal, racing towards the wall. My car adjusts beautifully, tilting up at the first touch, as if made of rubber. I fly up the wall to a place near the 80 digits on the giant speedometer. So far, so good.
    However, getting down will be a challenge. My car now seems more like a bicycle, and I realize there is no way I can ride it down the wall. I’ll have to lower myself, little by little, gripping a edge I discover. This is the edge of an enormous panel or screen that covers part of the wall. But it crumbles like an old strip of cardboard when I try to use it as a handhold as I go down the wall.
    This doesn’t faze me. I’m willing to let go and drop the whole distance, seemingly hundreds of feet. I know that no serious harm can come to me.

Feelings: mildly curious, philosophical.

Reality: I suspect this was an “end of life” dream, rehearsing me for the last stage of life. 80 or 80-something would seem a better life term than 100, especially if by that time I am losing my edge!