There is a city I visit repeatedly in my dreams. Rather, a place in a city, and a route to that city.
The place. It is a transport station, elevated in a sort of castle-like building on a point. It reminds me of the Flatiron building if it were a castle. Along one side it follows a river road.
This city is somewhat timeless. It sometimes is archaic, with only foot traffic. Shakespearean. Sometimes early 20th century, cars and trains. Other times contemporary.
The approach. For some reason the city is approachable only through a steep, lengthy, harrowing trip down steep mountains. I often have dreams in which I am careening — seemingly forever — down mountainsides on my way to this city. Somehow I know that his my destination. Sometimes I am ridin something like a sled, sliding down forested hills. Sometimes I am on a train. But it is always frightening, and always goes on and on.
Other times, my dreams involve my trying to reach this central station from somewhere in the city. It kind of pops up as a concept within whatever else may be happening in the dream. Sometimes it is a destination so I can escape from some conflict, sometimes it is my sought-for point of departure to seek something else I want. But it is always a central destination.
One night recently I had my first dream where the focus was my experience inside this station. It reminded me of the interior of Los Angeles’s Union Station. I was escaping someone or, more properly, skulking and hiding from someone. There was a flea market and I spent time at a sock table. In my dream, Neil Patrick Harris was also in the group of people at the table. We interacted somehow, and he ended the conversation by allowing all of us to take a selfie. He pulled out his own phone for this, and said, “OK, everyone, time for the selfie.”
In the dream he had a lumberjack-style beard.