i enjoy sneezing---New Zealand

DREAM THAT CAME TRUE #1 (OF 3)

I had dreamt of snow the night before. Snow in just the same way too: flurries, with no expectations of accumulation.
I don’t know why or in what context the snow dream took place. I hadn’t seen snow for two years, and I had come to terms with the fact that a third year would pass snowlessly in the southern and eastern hemispheres. All I can remember from the dream is that a) I was cognizant of it being the first snow that I had seen in years b) I was extremely excited to be seeing it, feeling it, dancing through the light flurries, the crisp air. Other than that, I only remember the feeling that I was on some sort of a mission, that something was to be accomplished, seemingly unrelated to the snow.
I woke up remembering the dream, disappointed that I hadn’t, in reality, been amongst the falling flakes. It was a dream, and awaking from a dream can be disappointing, but somehow this one struck deeper; not the disappointment, the disappointment struck me superficially. It was the feeling of walking in the snow that hit me. It stayed with me as I rose, much like the feeling that follows a night of dreaming about the deceased, a dream in which it seems that not only the image of the dead person has come to you, but the feeling that the actual spirit of that person was present.

We headed south towards Tongariro, inland. The landscape changed suddenly from dense, wet forests and farmlands to drastic hillsides, gaping valleys separating them, asymmetrically rising and falling. As the sun lowered itself, the variations of lines and creekbeds in the hills were accentuated by the shadows, striping the hillsides. In flat crevasses buried in the steep inclines stood individual sheep, appearing perilously perched between the angled trucks of the occasional tree.
Further up, towards Tongariro, the green faded to brown, trees dwindled to shrubs, broomed bushes allowing for endless views of sweeping emptiness. Flat slopes led us to the Chateau, our 19th century-style lodge resting at the base of the largest of the three snow-capped mountains of Tongariro National Park.
The rain came in, socked us in, made us painfully aware of the drop in air temperature our car ride had led us to, and aware of just how underdressed we had become, sandaled and short-sleeved. To what extreme the temperature had dropped we would not realize, not until we sat inside, playing cards in the ample 7 o’clock sunlight pouring through the raised window of our high-ceiling villa. The sun caught my attention and turned my head towards the window. The rain had converted itself into something thicker, frozen, air suspended within its boundaries.
I threw on shoes and a thin long-sleeve and darted outside, turned instinctively uphill, always seeking the vista, which led me towards the snow-covered volcano that at that moment was beginning to shed the last of its clouds that had only seconds before engulfed it. The late afternoon light of the second-to-last day of spring, the 19th, shone firmly and proudly on the freshly-fallen inches that buried the perfect cone. And in the cone the snow, cooperating with the all-black rock, created lines, running up and down the volcano, curving outwards at its base, and reaching upwards at its top, stretching towards the apex of the volcano, the incomplete part, the mountain without a peak, the peak having blown itself off with such geological force that in its stead lies nothing, a flatness, a peaklessness, a volcano.
And in that moment, like so many other moments alike, nothing is wrong, and all that there is in life to worry about is seen for what it really is, which is nothing, nothing to fear.
And it becomes clear that the world will be fine as will my place in it, as predetermined and perfect…and everything is beautiful.


This story is similar to the snow story...both happened just as i wrote them, remarkably, which is what prompted me to write them.....dreams are cool like that

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DREAM THAT CAME TRUE #2
PUDDLES & HELICOPTERS

Awoken early to the sound of rain. All night it had fallen, with force and consistency. Puddles were visible on the trail between the lodge and the river seemed to be moving faster and carrying greater quantities of water than the night before.
I awoke uneasy, dreams flooded with discomforting thoughts, images of Jim Carrey on a time constraint and me rushing to catch a flight. As a last second hope to get to the proper airport on time, I bummed a ride from a guy with a helicopter. It was clear that he didn’t want to fly me there, but that he felt obligated under the societal understanding that he who has a helicopter at his disposal shall give rides to those who don’t. As we took off from the roof of a large building and I began to question my personal safety, I reminded myself that in Houston this technique of helicopter airport rides were once commonplace. The thought only temporarily assuaged my fears, for upon takeoff I realized that this helicopter was unlike any other helicopter I had seen or ridden in. On this one, it was my responsibility to maintain myself balanced on a flat, hard surface, the texture of a cement block, no wider than five feet across, with high likelihood of death in case of failure. To make it more difficult, the block swayed and shifted, as would any large, weighty object dangling from a cable beneath a helicopter in-flight.

Setting off on the Milford Track, crossing the suspension bridge a mere 100 meters from the Glade House, a similar feeling passed through my body. As the quick-moving water below taunted me by causing my mind to adjust and counter its visual movement, the bridge reacted to my movement with a sway downstream. It wasn’t until I reached the center of the bridge that the dream surfaced in my mind, the point at which the U of the cables dropped so low that to lower myself the keep them within my grasp would have been more dangerous than simply trusting my legs to succeed in balancing me and my top-heavy backpack. It was this desire to have handrails that reminded me of the previous night’s dream.

The rain continued without any signs of loosening its grip on the climate, streaming through the leaves above which despite their grand presence did not protect the sanctity of our once-dry clothing. Maintaining dry feet was a task taken more seriously, as it seemed to be much more within our control. We stepped lightly, avoiding accumulated water, utilizing our toes in ballerina steps, leaping from dry edge to a protruding root of a tree to safe, dry ground, which lasted only until the next aqua-obstacle. Although this process took a great deal of time, it did not last long. Less than a mile down the track we came to a flooded creek, depth unknown. We hesitated, analyzed the options, of which there were none other than simply plowing through the water without hope of dry sock. With no way around and no objects to step on, we went straight, and the water immediately filled our boots and soaked into our socks. We assumed that this would be quite uncomfortable, but instead the water became a comfort, both in temperature and in touch. The waterproof boots, meant to keep water out, were now keeping water in, water which acted as if in a wetsuit, returning the heat to the feet that it was originally given by the feet. The wool socks, now drenched, gave a sort of gel-type comfort, adjusting to every movement of the foot. But the greatest benefit was that of pride versus fear. Where we had previously avoided wetness, danced around puddles, we now ran through them, at them, with a sense of childish enjoyment coupled with the feeling of being untouchable. Once you’re wet, you’re wet. Nothing can make you ‘wetter’. We walked high above the sensation that water was to be feared, knew it was harmless and scoffed at those who feared it.
We came to a clearing, and the sharp incline of the walls of the glacier-carved U-shaped valley became apparent. And pouring down every open face and crevasse of the valley wall were infinite waterfalls, large and small, in trickles and cascades, peacefully and violently. In the sky above the green trees and silver rock faces, harsh treeless rocks had faces carved into them by the snow fields that blended into the endless white of the cloud and fog that filled in all the negative space, floating, always floating, in one direction or the other but going nowhere, both above and below the unreachable crevasses of the snowfields and waterfalls and dancing through the trees just above eye level.
Something was coming, breaking the peaceful, consistent white sound of the rain and the falls, chopping at the silence, approaching. It landed a few hundred meters away and there they told us that we must board it, that the land route was impassable, that Dead Lake had flooded. In hindsight it made sense, how all the water you could see racing down the walls had to go somewhere, and the river, although working harder than usual, simply could not carry all that water out of the valley as quickly as it was coming in. It made you wonder how there was even enough dry earth to take off and land, or even to walk up to this point, just before Dead Lake, where we stood.
We boarded. Just as we were about to take off, my brother turned to me and said, “I wish it would at least take us all the way to our next lodge so that at least it feels like there’s a point to it.” We had just been told that it would only take us as far as necessary, a mile or two over the lake to the next safe, dry spot. Still, I was confused. “I’m excited that we get to ride in it, just that we get the chance to, aren’t you?” I said, with a look on my face that you might find on a kid at a birthday party, in the moments before the presents are opened. “No,” he said emphatically. His eyes shot images into my mind, images of hiking trails running along cliff edges and of fear, basic fear.
As we took off, a certain instability resonated through the group, as one landing leg lifted before the other. We rose straight up, no more than fifty feet high, turned slightly, and hesitated for a split second before speeding down the canyon. The wetness of the lake below, rising up to the necks of the trees, the hundreds of waterfalls on the walls above and below us, the rain pouring down on the windshield and glass roof all merged into once scene of drenched beauty. Too much of it to soak in as individual pieces of god, only as a single united rush of flying through this, the Southern Alps, on this day in this moment.
We turned sharply and the feeling of unsureness as to whether rollercoaster-type screaming is or is not appropriate became insignificant. He must have done that just for us, because he likes us and knows that we’d get a thrill out of being 45 degrees while moving 120 kilometers per hour while fifty feet from both the rock of the canyon walls and from the ground.
We flatten ourselves out and begin to drop, straight down, smoothly. “Now are you glad we got to do that?” I asked Dan, mostly knowing the answer. “Hell yeah,” his face said with a laugh.

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Impressions about New Zealand: the people are insanely friendly and smiley. Everything is clean and beautiful, and the signs/graphics are aesthetically pleasing. And, of course, the natural scenery and landscape is just spectacular.
Everything feels so peaceful, so idyllic. I can't imagine violence, poverty, any sort of -ism existing here. I know that is not the case, surely, but that is how this place feels. It's pretty nice.