Only a Dream Away

A troubling character

A slew of dreams last night:

ACT I

I experience a series of snippets of time spent with my friend K. It's as though I'm running fast forward through months of times spent together, all fairly mundane -- sitting next to each other, talking, laughing, smiling, hugging -- but all pleasant. In all of these instances I feel my love and affection for him.

ACT II

K has flown in for a visit and I go to meet him. Only, it isn't him. This man *says* that he is K, and acts as though everything is normal. But he's sharp and rude and calculating. Despite the fact that a) he doesn't look like the K I know at all, and b) he doesn't act like the K I know at all -- I participate in the illusion and just go with it, thinking, somehow, that he is the same person, that I have forgotten what K is really like because he lives so far away. This man looks like your typical obnoxious slick '90s businessman, with the slick haircut, suit and tie and briefcase and impatient look.

Somehow I find myself having sex with this "stranger" and going though the motions, doing the dance, acting like I'm into it. It feels like he's using me. I let it happen, under the notion that this is K, and it is fine, and it is a person I know and trust. But I know deep down that something is not right.

At the end of his stay, I go with this man to the airport to see him off. We are waiting for his plane. I am having a conversation with him and he is being disrespectful, rude, offensive actually. He hardly looks up from his phone to talk to me except to give me a dirty look with some sarcastic comment.

Finally, I have had enough, and I say, "OK, what's going on here? You're not really K, are you?" 

And he says, "What are you talking about? Of course I am!" 

"I know you're not him. Tell me who you are."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Look at me! Why would you think I'm not him?"

"You don't look like him and you don't remember any of the other times we have spent together. I knew it all the time and I can't believe I had sex with you." I begin to walk away.

He rushes after me and says, "OK, OK. I'm not him. Look." He pulls out his wallet, and from his wallet a business card with K's picture on it. The card has some kind of a nature/rainbow theme -- not at all the sort of business card K would have in real life. The card shows K under a different name with an executive position. "That was his old job," the impostor says, stuffing the card and wallet back into his pocket. "Friends do this for me all the time," he continues. "I sent K out here to check you out and see what kind of a girl you are and get you ready for me."

This segment of the dream closes with me feeling ambivalence and betrayal about K, whom I loved and thought I knew, but who is apparently an agent for some lascivious jerk. Also troubling is that I didn't even know K's real name (as shown on his business card).

ACT III

I am in the airport again. I am telling some friends (not sure who these are) about the incident but somehow things have gotten better because the real K is returning. I lie on the floor in the middle of one of the main arteries of the airport and start rolling around and stretching. Out of the corner of my eye I see K -- the real one -- also on the floor, "swimming" toward me. He is wearing a shirt with tiny blue and green triangles on a bright white field.

We reach each other and I look into his smiling face -- yes, it is unmistakably him -- and I feel a great comfort and affection for him. We hug and cuddle. I tell him all about the other man, and I confess to him that I don't know why I still love him so much, considering the fact that he would do such a thing to me, be part of such a deception. He provides no explanation. The dream returns to a scene that could have been part of Act I, where we are sitting in a beautiful outdoor setting, the sun is soft, the air is warm, and we are enjoying each other's company.

(I have to admit, this dream is very disturbing. There is a double illusion going on here and I am knowingly participating in my own betrayal. In the end the most honest man is the jerk. This one is going to take a lot of processing.)

OTHER SNIPPETS:

I am a kid again (I think) and it is night time. I am on a steamboat on a river in deep woods. We are gliding toward what appears to be a giant door somehow spanning the entire width of the river. There are three boats, and I am on one. I can see the reflection of the lights on the top of the boats dimly reflected in the door's wooden surface as we near.

Next, I find myself off the boat and sitting on a bank watching some kind of entertainment by torchlight. It's very strange to have this voyage and gathering in the pitch dark night.

Then I find myself running deep into the forest with two other friends. Under a yew I find my 3rd-grade best friend Regina, who is weepily telling us about a dream she had (about her mother?) and how blessed she is to have such a dream. She is lying on her back under the low branches of this yew, and I can only see her from the shoulders up. The rest of her is in the dark of the deep forest. I have a sense that we will leave her there.

Unrelated to the above: I am in a garden tending a low growing plant with blue buds. An older woman who appears to be the owner of the garden/teacher is standing above me, talking to others. I ask her if I should snip the buds off. She says yes, and demonstrates by pinching them off with her hands, explaining that that is how she keeps the plant going all through the season.

Psychedelic Jail Cell/ Sleeping Car

Lots of big dreams over the past couple of weeks that should have been recorded but alas, were not. I can't ignore this one because this morning I received an e-mail from my teacher about his life in the late '60s that dovetails neatly with the subject matter. This is my dream from last night:

I am discussing with a fellow herb classmate, Mary, an herb event taking place somewhere out of state. She is showing me a program, or perhaps it was a train schedule. I understand that one of my teachers (Michael) will be at this event, so I decide to go.

The scene changes and I am standing on a train platform -- an oversized one high above the street. It is a sunny day and I know that I will be taking this train to the herb event. The wind is blowing and I notice I am alone. Where is everyone? Isn't anyone else getting on this train?

Scene jumps again -- I did not see the train actually pull up but now I have just stepped into a train car and the door, which takes up a whole wall, is slid shut behind me with a loud metallic clang. I feel as though I have been pushed in, or tripped in, right off the platform (not off a main aisle in a larger train car; this seems like a whole car unto itself, though it is very small, about 9x9').

I go straight to a very small square window opposite the door. It is placed too high on the wall and I have to get on tiptoe to see out of it. I see another train going by, and faces of strangers inside. They are going in the opposite direction. I think about Michael and wherever it is that I'm going.

I back away from the window and look at the room for the first time. How odd; it is painted in bright, psychedelic colors -- the floor and some of the walls are bright orange and lilac. I look down at myself and I'm wearing knee-high boots and a fluttery chiffon pleated mini-dress in a lemon color, with angel-wing sleeves. My lucid self pops in and wonders why I'm wearing something so outdated and  inappropriate for traveling.

The car has no furniture, just a fold-down bunk on the right side, attached to the wall. I lie on it and it is extremely uncomfortable, hurting my spine. The mattress is old and thin, with little substance. I ease off the bed and look under the mattress, which seems light as a feather. Someone has shoved corrugated cardboard under there, presumably to protect their back from the bars and springs of the black bedframe. I adjust the location of the cardboard to where my lower back meets the bed.

I stand back and think, "Huh. This is more like a jail cell than a sleeping car," and wonder about the garish colors, which give one the impression of cheer but are so incongruous with the space. I have no access to other passengers, nor do I know if there even *are* any on this train, and I cannot open my own door.

The end.

Strange town, strange school, and the blue-headed child

I find myself the only adult sitting at a desk in a classroom full of children. It feels a bit back in time; earlier in the 20th century. BUT -- we are being shown DVDs. The teacher passes around red Netflix envelopes as she puts the DVD in the player. It is midday but the blinds are drawn. Shafts of sunlight sneak into the dimmed room. Everyone gets a red envelope but I get the DVD's actual sleeve with mine, so I know the title of the movie playing (and, I suppose, I have to return it!). The sleeve says something like "The Dark School" or "The Dark Classroom." The movie plays in black and white. The opening scene is of unifomed children in a classroom. I remember a little girl with fat blonde braids in ribbons. Strikes me as late 1950s to mid '60s.

The children, all about 9 or 10 years old, steal glances at me and seem bemused that I'm there. I feel welcome, if a little bit on display. They look at me like I'm some kind of curiosity, which I suppose I am. I rest my chin on my fists on the desks and relax completely, thinking how great it is to just sit quietly in a classroom and passively learn.

Then we are about to be dismissed. We all stand up in a crowd around the door. Something (I can't remember) is going on with the children. Nothing bad, but something needing adult intervention. I bend down and help out. The teacher appears from the hallway. I try to hide behind the door but she  points out that the door is frosted glass, so she can see me. It's all very gentle and relaxed, good-natured teasing.

I am going down the stairs out of the school and someone hands me a small sleeping child -- a baby even. Maybe no more than 2 or 3 years old. He is wrapped in a blanket. He is exotic-looking, dark olive-skinned, beautiful, also strange. His bald (or shaved) head is a sparkly green-blue color. He sleeps against my scarf, which happens to be the same color. His head against the scarf against my chest reinforces the memory of this color.

Someone -- and older child? -- behind me is following, either related to him or...?

I get outside and don't know what to do with him or where I am or where I am going. Like the school and the children, I don't recognize the town either.

I set him down. He has transformed into a tiny, adorable dog! I look at this little black dog -- with white accents -- with complete wonder. He is still wrapped in the blanket. He's awake and smiling that dog-smile, looking at me with bright, eager eyes.

Then I am all of a sudden asking directions -- to a place I heard someone speaking of, though I don't know what is there. Home maybe. But I don't know this place and I don't know where 'home' is. I don't know where my family is. It's like I've literally materialized in another world.

"Which way is ________?" I ask a stranger. They point in a general direction.

I see some buses going by and figure if I just get on one it'll take me where I need to go. I search for a place to catch one. The layout is confusing. I have to go under a concrete bridge. I look at the digital signs on the buses to see if I might recognize a place name.

Finally I catch one and sit near the front. The bus is full of seated people. After riding for a while I get nervous; I really have NO idea where I'm supposed to get off or if I'm even on the right bus! So I turn around to see a middle-aged woman with grey short curls and a somewhat loud floral shift sitting there with her purse primly balanced on her lap. She looks like she's stepped out of a Beatles "Penny Lane" video. I'm surprised to see her and her friend already looking at me with expectant smiles. "Excuse me, do you know if this bus goes to ________?" I ask her. She nods and says yes, and keeps staring at me. "I'm a little lost," I say, apologetically.

And she says:

"Oh no, you're not. We all knew you were coming. I could feel your presence for a long time before you even got here."

Now THIS dream has really got me stumped.

Back in time, Matthew, petroglyphs, strange manuscripts

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.

At the Tierras', missing my flight to Glastonbury

I am staying with a couple of other students at my teachers' house in California. I have never seen the inside of their home in real life, but it is light-filled, spacious, and cozy at the same time with an interesting breakfast nook in the kitchen with cushions covered with beautiful Indian fabrics.

It is morning. I am hanging out in the nook with a couple of other students (I do not recognize them) when I hear the front door open. I go into another room to see who is coming in. It is Lesley, and she has just come back from the salon. She's had a blow-out and her hair looks shiny, sleek, and beautiful, in relaxed waves around her face. She looks at least 10 years younger. She greets me and is smiling.

When I walk with her back to the kitchen Michael is there chatting with the other students. He says he and Lesley are going on a trip somewhere -- I can't remember if he said where or not. He is wearing his brown jacket and burgundy shirt. All of a sudden I feel I am intruding on something, or else I am uncomfortable, so I leave the kitchen and go out into the living room by myself. The carpet is light-colored.

Shortly after that Michael and Lesley take their luggage through the living room and down the steps to the front door (it is separated from the room by a wall and short flight of steps leading to the street). I say goodbye to them and follow them to the top of the stairs. Lesley goes out first and as Michael turns to close the door behind him, he smiles at me and blows me a kiss.

I go back into the living room, feeling suddenly awkward that I am in their home alone (the other students seem to have disappeared). Then I realize that I am due on a flight to Glastonbury. Part of my mind is there, part of it is with my body in California. I realize I haven't packed yet and begin to remove unnecessary books from my backpack. I wonder why I am so casual about this trip, when usually I am one of those people who plans the preparation and travel part of any voyage down to the minute. I want to call my teachers to ask them if I can leave my books in their house while I'm gone, but part of me realizes I'm supposed to be looking after things/living there, so it should be all right.

But why am I leaving when they themselves have just gone?

I remove my books one by one and stack them up against a wall in the living room. They create an irregular but tall tower, too many to have come from one backpack. I look at their spines and they are mostly about magic. Again I have second thoughts about leaving these in my teachers' house. What will they think? Why aren't any of these about herbs? Why do they all have to be the 'weird' books? I leave them there anyway.

I am off to the airport when, en route, I finally look at my ticket and see that I've missed my flight entirely. I wonder if I should call my dad to come pick me up from the airport or else just wait there for the next available flight... I start to calculate in my mind what time I will arrive if I leave in the evening, and I see myself walking in Glastonbury under a hanging garden (which I have not seen there in real life).