I really wish I would have gotten this down sooner; the day has worn on and now the details have lost a lot of their vividness. Here goes. This is from last night.
I am waiting at a bus stop. I do not recognize where I am but it does not seem to be in the United States. The bus arrives, seems to be going a little too fast, but it stops. There are many people with me at the bus stop. The bus' front and side doors open, and it is set up to admit passengers from both doors, which surprises me. It makes the boarding faster and more efficient. I think to go on the side door since it is closer, but run up to the front anyway. The bus is red. The city street I am on is not busy. It is an overcast day but springlike, the way I remember Wales in May.
The bus lets me off somewhere -- I just remember there being a cul-de-sac feeling to it. Not close or crowded, but the presence of a curved, tall stone wall, or perhaps a place where the road curved into a narrower lane. Houses. The sun was out. It was mild in temperature. I alight from the bus and I see my university boyfriend, Matthew, approaching me.
His hair is long and curly and unkempt the way it was all those years ago. He is thin, tall, lanky, fluid, blue eyes beautiful under that brow I loved so much. All of a sudden I understand that he is there to pick me up, and he acts like everything is normal -- that is, that we are still as we were in college and no time has gone by. I can't remember clearly now but he seems to be receiving me in a shawl or blanket of some sort, wrapping me in it. I remember shades of chartreuse and cantaloupe. He greets me affectionately. I say, "Matthew? You're here to pick me up?" And he looks at me funny, as if I am asking a dumb question -- of COURSE he's here to pick me up, this is what we have arranged. "Just tell me one thing," I say, as we walk arm in arm down the brick-laid street. "What year is this?"
I asked this at least twice but I don't remember if he ever answered.
All of a sudden we are out of a European landscape and walking toward sort of tiki hut bar on some Pacific island. It is not by the ocean, it is roadside, in a dusty, somewhat desolate area. Once inside, I see several of his friends from film school all seated at a long table. They're casual, dressed like beach bums. They all look as they did in college. I am still trying to reconcile this reality with the fact that I am actually 31 now, but, when in Rome (or Wales or Hawaii, whatever)...
The sun is shining through the open door of the bar. There is a window across from the front door, at the end of the long table. Over it hangs a curtain. On the curtain are columns of what look like some kind of petroglyphs, painted in blue onto the linen-like fabric. Either he or one of his friends -- I can't remember which -- gesture to them and indicate somehow that they are being decoded. I feel in awe of these mysterious cartoonish little symbols. One resembles a flying saucer -- or was it a boat, or a rocket? In any case, something having to do with transportation. In the dream I gather that they were copied from somewhere on the island. They hold my interest, looking and feeling very important as the sun shines through them, even though they are displayed in such a mundane location.
Matthew and I sit down. He hands me a book. It has pages falling out of it; it seems old, and if not, then certainly well-worn. It is open to a particular page he wants me to read. Unfortunately now I can't remember what it was that was on that page. I start to flip through the book, not really that impressed with whatever it was he wanted me to look at, or at least it wasn't interesting enough to me to not flip through. "Who wrote this book anyway?" I ask him. He closes the book in my hands and turns it so the cover is facing up. "I did," he says. The title indicates that the book is in three parts: something about science, the next about Freud, the next about literature. Underneath the three-part title is his name. Whatever it was that I was reading didn't reflect the title at all. (Typing this now I think, "Don't judge a book by its interior?") Immediately impressed, I climb on his lap and say, "Oh my God, I think we should start making babies right now!" It is comical but affectionate and sincere. My semi-lucid dream editor rolls her eyes -- this is something I have never said and probably would never say, to anyone, past or present, in real life.
Then, the dream shifts abruptly to a quiet, sparse indoor space, no longer with the island vibe. I'm not even sure if it is day or night anymore because this part of the dream is lit artificially. I am seated at a desk or a counter, flowing almost seamlessly in this respect from the last part of the dream. All of a sudden, it's Matthew's mother, Romayne, who is there (an artist and writer whom I very much respect and admire) and she has handed me a tabloid-sized piece of parchment with printing on it; it appears to be two pages from a large manuscript, printed in a very old style -- not as crowded as 17th century books; maybe 18th century. It reminds me of one of those old children's primers, but without pictures. I begin to read it and it appears to be a list of my herb school friends, each with a little rhyme or description about them. I only remember part of one -- my EastWest friend Sarah being described as a 'snow leopard.'
I notice that the printing is somewhat irregular, though I marvel at the beauty of the letters. Compelled to look closely because of the slight irregularities, I notice: this is not printed, it's hand-rendered, in pencil! Looking even CLOSER at the sheet, I see that it is not even parchment, it has been painstakingly sketched to resemble the mottled look of parchment! There are even fake 'tea stains' and other discolorations and tears drawn on. It looked so real and as a supposed real document it was impressive, but to find out it was handmade to look old was an unbelievable surprise! I look up at Romayne and wonder: Why would you do something like this? But still thinking it was beautiful. I don't remember her having any reaction.
