Category: Dreams

In a train station in France. I’m to accompany two French ladies: a blond and a brunette. We talk in English until I decide to practice my high school French; this goes tolerably well.

After we buy tickets we stand next to the train-tube awaiting the train. We discuss which city to go to. Without settling upon a destination, we decide to purchase some vittles from the classy delicatessen just to our left in the station.

The first section, serving meats, served by a male, is strangley cordoned off: the rope holders have been pushed up against the serving glass; I have to step over them to uncomfortably place an order.

The second section, serving vegetables, served by a brunette, has no such obstacles and is not as crowded. We take our time conferring with one another what to take; the server make suggestions. There a some beautiful fried pepper slices which we take; when the server suggests something else with peppers, I object, because we already have picked some peppers.

I opt for some baked beans.

“Oh, no,” cries the server, her personality coming out. She is comparable to Zooey Deschanel with a thinner, less-healthy face.

“Yes” I insist, jovaly, picking up on the playfulness.

“You are going to decapitate them,” she says.

“I think… I think I will eat them all”

She looks hurt.

“We are going down to bean town!”

She pouts, and smiles.

“I think,” she beams, just realizing this, “I am going to be on the same train as you,” revealing small, unhealthy teeth, which do not take away from her endearing nature.

I’m living in a spacious apartment. It’s beautiful and well appointed. It’s also expensive and many of the rooms go unused, making it a bit lonely.

Next, I find myself talking to some developers who are roommates with one another. They share a classy apartment in a skyscraper. Rob Lowe is one of the lead developers. The rent is surprisingly cheap: only $430 a month. The lingering caveat is that developers come and go: there is a high turnover of developers moving in and moving out. To confound my considerations further, I had already moved my things into a small apartment across town.

Bogart is being interviewed by Brando in a bathroom.

He tells Brando, “Careful not to get pooh on my suit”

Brando lays Bogart’s suit across the toilet seat. In a quiet gesture of menace, he gently presses it down. One tiny spot of pooh touches the breast pocket.

Enraged, Bogart manhandles Brando: he stuffs him in the toilet and flushes him down. You can here the explosion of pipes downstairs in the busy kitchen.

Bogart and his compadre are outside, about to take off. They debate whether to kill “stupid”, referring to me, for getting Brando to do that to the suit.

I have a small part in a movie “Doing Australia”.

The film has these inane catch-phrases shared as an inside joke ending in “Doing Australia” or just, in non-sequitur, “Australia”.

Example:

Main Character: The car was going so fast it was doing Australia.

We are decorating my house. It’s not my house; it’s my character’s house.

It’s not a house; it’s a room. It’s part of the movie set in an office building.

I walk around the room with the well-dressed lady interior decorator. I suggest a few alterations.

She deftly explains the reasoning behind the design; at once I am educated and, without qualm, abandon my earlier line of thinking.

I comment on this, admiring for the skillful tact she must have to constantly employ to surmount the power plays by famous actors and respected directors. She gives a knowing assent.

I’m happy to have a part in a movie. Then, I pause and sadly consider I have separated myself from so many others, I now have no one close to celebrate this good happening with.

As we casually exit my house — the room, rather — some forlorn actors begin to gather their things to leave. They are leaving for good, out of a job. Perhaps they are leaving their profession. Boohoo.

I lightly join some fellow actors in nearby room. We gather to gab. Ah, here’s the famous co-star now.

“Would you like to ???? Australia?” he jovially asks.

I return with a surprised, unknowing gesture.

He adds, “Night, eh?” as if to make it clear.

My prolonged reluctance to accept the jest unnerves him and he goes off in a huff.

I’m mad. I stew, then I pound my fist into the chair over and over.

“It’s good to express my anger,” I think. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spy the director observing me.

“Perhaps I have acted well and have pleased the director,” I wonder to myself.

…

The tree was artificial. To save myself embarrassment and to avoid the sad truth, every day I’d water the tree, hoping the damp earth that supported lifeless limbs would detract and speak care where there was no life to care for.

I go to the edge of a Great Falls cliff. I go past the velvet crowd rope, and climb.

I climb up and to the right. It’s hard and fun.

Some children stand from where I left. They want to follow; their mother needlessly objects.

There on the next cliff are the feet of a ne’er-do-well. A green sofa chair supporting a baseball capped loafer gradually comes into view as I reach up my hands against the pull of the cliffs and gravity; he casually leans over and lends me a hand.

As I regain my footing, I find myself in a wooden tavern and get a hearty meal for myself.

…

Riding my bike down a tunnel near a stream. Another bike comes up beside mine. It leans into my path. I veer closer to the stream. It cuts into me. I fall into the stream. The bike rider is a baby elephant. A lost baby elephant.

I tread back, with bike in tow, towards the beginning of the tunnel in order to climb out of the stream. It’s going to take a while. I’ve forgotten how long I happen to have been biking in the tunnel. And the baby elephant, it needs to be taken care of.

Walking from home to ??, I come into a neighbor’s yard. There’s a pleasant, blond, young mother and a couple of her children in the yard. Also here are some dressed-up monkeys they are playing with.

The humans’ gestures welcome me to interact with them. I gingerly acquaint myself with the a monkey or two. One of the monkeys bite me. I smart for a second. The mother nonchalantly approaches me.

“That will be $25,” she says. She points to a sign posted on the house.

Monkey Bites
Nip	$5
Nibble	$10
Bite	$25

I reluctantly accept this. The mom escorts me across the small yard to a small guest house/office. There, a brunette young lady, perhaps a college student paid a low wage for this job, proceeds to ring up and ask for 25 dollars.

Embarrassed, I dip into my wallet and fish out a 20 and 5. I hand it over.

As I’m leaving the little hut I find myself starting to say “Scam.” The brunette gives me the evil eye. She threatens me.

“Scam. Scam. Scam. Scam. Scam. Scam. Scam,” I repeat, louder and louder.

I feel the neighborhood has been alerted to me. I realize the whole neighborhood is in on it. Little golden-haired boys with large water-pistols petal on their bikes in a desperate attempt to stop me.

“Scam. Scam. Scam. Scam. Scam. Scam. Scam.”