Category: Dreams

I’m taken to high school.

I sit inside the office with 2 young psychologists. It’s some kind of job interview or student-to-teacher get together. They don’t know how old I am. We get into the psychology of life. They’ve written a book: Psychology for Dummies. I point them out. They correct me: they are actually the 2 teenagers looking at the two hipsters that wrote the book and are pictured — a curly haired man and a Frenchman.

I show them my shoes. They fall over themselves when I tell them they are Fluevogs. They don’t know how they’d do it, they say. I say one just has to be brave enough to go online and order them.

At one point I take issue with their theory. I stand up.

We move outside the pool. The principal, a black woman, joins us. She flirts with all of us softly. By the end she tells us she’s hot. I wonder should I go down under the table and service her, but that would be too wonderful and embarrassing. She takes a fire extinguisher and sprays it up her skirt.

A posh lobster bisque dance troupe prepares a meal for a large group of people. The setting is in my parents’ basement.

As we partake in the meal, we discover a person buried in floor, the concrete of the floor. After a while, after some investigation and excavation, we discover a whole floor of people buried.

I was once buried there and escaped. One lady that is discovered was the original lady buried there. She had a brood of children; of course, they had been buried, too.

I’m your typical white suburbanite in poor minority, I suppose Hispanic, Spanish-speaking territory. I’m at a nice lake in an idyll land far from the suburban streets. I bungle around with my possessions before getting into the water.

Then, its time for children to go home. There is a PBS/hippie peace core vibe among the adults minding the children. I can tell they have fun and are fulfilled, engaged with their lives; it must feel like an adventure to them. They are filming for a documentary for funds. The bus begins to cross a very wide river — there is no bridge. The bus has no roof. They were planning on the river only so deep, I suppose a foot deep, but they hit a deep spot and lost a bus to the river.

Go to a strip mall to buy a game for Brian.

I arrive at the parking lot and turn off engine; but, I haven’t parked; I continue rolling. I miss a nearby parking space and have to circumnavigate and arrive somewhat close to the shop without having to restart car; still, its further away than where I could have parked the first pass. A couple of foreign men sitting in their car see me pass by; they sneer at me in disapproval.

This turns into a mini-story of the young cameraman doing filming in the shop. I think the filming is of an interview with a respected, wise, semi-famous man. The cameraman is going to school part time. Though he is a low camera man, he shifts into his later, respected, wise, famous self and is seen interviewed in the shop. When he leaves he is the young self just beginning his real career which he likes.

I leave the store and the parking lot. I miss a turn and continue straight. The street going down. I go down. There are no more intersections.

I’m driving down … far down down down. It’s unbelievable how far down and step this road is; it just keeping going.

At first I cruise until I go dangerously fast, then I begin to brake.

My eyes track the road road where it the levels off and starts to go up, but I find it hard to go straight like this. It’s safer and better for my eyes to track just what’s in front of me.

Finally the road levels off an goes up and up and up. I miss another turn off. Then I see the road beyond doing screwy loops. “Surely,” I think, “that would be disastrous. I wouldn’t be able to have enough speed to stay on though those loops.” I do a quick turn in the middle of the road and am finally on my way home.

A small country ships the bulk of their export in one day to the US.

I’m stuck in prison. My country uses all their coniving to launch military resistance to get me out, sacrificing a whole years worth of export plus relations to the US for me.

I’m in high school. I’m much older than this. Why am I here?

I have a megaphone. The high school seems to be in the street. School is over. I speak into the megaphone because I can; still, I don’t have much to say; I say “time to go home; school is over.”

None of the students pay attention — I didn’t expect them to.

My therapist tells me of a specialist she’d like me to meet. He’s a tall, thin, serious man. I bike there. I go down the street without knowing the street number, then look at the street numbers, realize I passed the place, and double back.

It’s a typical 3-story professional building with a hint on psych institutional care. It’s evening now. I look at the paper for the hours he’s available: 3 A.M. to 10 A.M. Hmm, I’ll have to come back during those hours. The walk-in bit is a surprise to me.

I’m in a swimming competition. I have to put on some fancy equipment in a certain procedure, one of the refs explains.

Brian and I both are in the competition.

I swim. I don’t do so bad.

On the return trip a swimmer latches unto me. I am pulling him a bit, then a ref blows a whistle on me and warns me no piggy backing. I’m nonplussed. He latched onto me; how could it be my fault?

“The water knows” he says.

It’s a fun game. I later think it might be fun to do the physical game over the internet with Jim.

I stand on a sunlit hill in a park or a resort. I converse with a gentleman who has an air of aristocracy.

We discuss a young lady aristocrat. I have feelings for her; the gentleman informs me she is already betrothed. I am despondent.

Then there is a diving competition between me and her betrothed, who is young, strong, and confident.

He dives with success; I am still despondent. I dive un-energetically. The judges are outraged at my lack of form.

I’m in my father’s basement, in is workroom. I haven’t even told him anything about my latest life ventures, including leaving work, I guess.

I’m stuttering to talk to him. I have trouble seeing him.  I collapse into a chair and he helps me sit down in it.

At some point in this our terse conversation, Dad pins me back against the wall with a cabinet so I am forced to look at him.

He shines the light directly in my face. He has amazing solid brown eyes; it’s like the first time I see his eyes; I’m excited at how beautiful they are. I try to tell him this and he doesn’t hear.

He interrupts me with curt criticism.

I confess to quiting work.

“I haven’t been working for 6 months,” I say, “except for a pity side-project. I work in therapy.”

He criticizes my calling it gossip.

Did I say gossip? I don’t remember well enough — perhaps I did; “I meant therapy.”

Maybe he’s going to find a job for me in his office — but, I’m not going to accept that.

He lights candles to increase the intensity of the light until he accidently lights a Chinese firecracker than ignites and burns down to a whistle; the whistle blows loud and steady into my awakening.