A Night in the City

Another hotel, this time in New York City. It is night. I seem to be on an upper floor of a skyscraper, in a softly/darkly lit area in a back corner off the main lobby, and I'm watching a movie on a large-screen TV. There are two other people there: my wife and some other guest, though we are all seated somewhat apart from one another (actually, I'm standing in my space). The movie is ending, and my wife says, "well that's a pretty depressing movie to see right before a show." this reminds me that I have a stage show to go see, so I leave with out really saying anything. For some reason, I'm pretty irritated with her.

She follows me out to the better lit, more populous part of this lobby and mentions something about shoes - I don't have any on. I continue on.

Outside it is day, and it's raining. I run into my mother. She complains about having put on the pounds since moving here. I understand what she means, having done so myself.

It seems to be night again. I take out my cell and dial 411 to find where the theater is. What I get seems to be the restaurants nearest where the theatre is, the closest being 30th Ave and 34th St. That information seems to be enough for me, so I thank the person and put the phone back.

Then I appear to be walking through a very large community gym. There are no stands around the courts, they're more like full practice courts. A game is just ending. It appears to be the Lakers and the Kings. I pass Kobe by the baseline and overhear that the Lakers lost. I continue back into a quiet hallway, at the end of which, to the right, is a little recessed area, kind of a dead end, and to the right again, a bathroom. Across form the bathroom, sitting on the floor with a basketball in his hands, is Magic. A young Magic. To his left is a janitor's closet, and he's trying to make some short baskets into a bucket in there. He explains that he needs to make a certain number in a row for a record of his to stand in the books. He says this just as he misses one, guaranteeing it won't stand.

He is again holding the ball between his hands as I sit down across from him and put my hands over his. I tell him that it's all right, we each have skills we discover in ourselves throughout our lives, if we're open to seeing them as they present themselves. We can make these discoveries earlier or later in life, and there will often be more than one. I talk a bit about my own life as an example. Magic says jokingly, "What are you, a cub scout?" I laugh. "No, I'm married. Just some things I picked up along the way." An assistant coach walks by to go into the bathroom and, overhearing our conversation, says "What is he, a cub scout?" We all laugh.

I'm in a large store with nice nick-knacks, talking with Magic and Magic's wife (a kind, smart plain-looking Caucasian woman in her mid-late twenties). They're surprised to find out that we're moving my family to the city (Minneapolis this time), in East Uptown. Surprised, but supportive. We're looking at various items (eg. stuffed beards) while talking.

We're at our new house, just Magic's wife and I as I'm showing her the basement and the "octopus" furnace (Magic is upstairs looking around). I talk about the many projects that lay ahead with the house, including replacing the furnace some day down the line. We also talk about how bad the economy is. I mention the layoffs at work, and how I've dodged all the bullets so far, but am working 11 hours a day now. Magic's wife talk about how they've had to cut back too. Though it's obvious they're in a whole different income bracket, she's sincere and I appreciate her support.

Now we're at a nice restaurant, again on an upper floor of a NYC skyscraper. We're seated at a table near the window. Besides Magic and his wife, there a two other women who I appear to know, one who strongly resembles Liz from college. Magic's wife tells of how Magic once (only once) dropped acid with her back in college (I'm thinking, wow - they've been together since college. Very cool) It was long before drug testing, so no one knew - and he never did it again anyhow. I asked if there were any residual effects for a while, like moments when the basketball took on a life of its own while he was playing. I mention that for me, it was a few years after doing LSD before I never had those experiences again. She laughs, and says no, he didn't have any problems with that. One of her friends mischievously says, "Are you sure?" while leaning forward and making serpentine motions with her hands. We laugh, knowing this is one of those stoner games friends play with each other to freak each other out. The woman to my right (the one who reminds me of Liz) does something akin to (but not quite) "running down the hallway." I laugh and say, "how about this?" and show her "running through a forest." However, just as/before I reach the end and say the last word, I realize that the room has gotten very quite and the woman with whom I was playing this has disengaged and is politely trying to signal to me to stop. I look over and see the restaurant is focused on a table a couple over from us, a table that appears to be (impatiently) waiting for me to finish so they can proceed. There is then something like a wedding proposal, though it is this rather large woman standing behind an even larger man, handing him the envelope with the ring in it. Odd.

Old New York/Chicago

I seem to have somehow met up with Morgan, an old grad school colleague, in Chicago. It's night, and we're crashed out on some futon in a darkened, unused banquet room. Seems like there are others sleeping around us also.

I'm awake, so I get up to go check things out in this building. I come across a very small amphitheatre-type set-up in an area that would normally look like a small store in a mall. The seating is recess in the floor, receding away from the hallway to the stage in the back corner. The set is a simple 3 dimensional backdrop giving the impression of a stone building, as in ancient Roman times. There is an entrance nearest and to the (audience) right of the corner, and to the right of that are names "chiseled" into the "stone" in a (textual) column from far up on the set to about 6-7' above the stage floor. They are simple first names, like "Sue" or "Arthur." It appears that they have just finished a show for the night, and are cleaning up. I see a program lying on a seat, and pick it up and browse through it. The production is "Hamlet, " and seeing the same names in the programs that I saw on the wall, I realize that the names on the set are the first names of the actors in the production. I find this ingenious and tell one of the people working there so.

I go back to tell Morgan he's gotta see this theatre and that they're doing this really cool "Hamlet" there.

The next part is a bit fuzzy. I appear to be in another room, this time with someone I know sitting in a small set in the middle of a room. The set piece is something like what I imagine one might wheel on as Jud's hut for "Old Jud Is Dead" in "Oklahoma!" It has three sides and is about 8'x8' (two platforms). Although this person I know is quite content to sit there, I know that something is wrong with that set. He tells me he had just had a conversation with someone who led him there, sat him down, talked for a while, and left. I step onto the set piece and examine the walls, crevices, and underneath the roof and see some white powder residue. I quickly take my acquaintance by the arm and pull him off the set, and as I do, the set ignites in the back, and in a ring around the front. Had he stayed, he would not have gotten out alive.

I'm on a city street. It still feels a bit like Chicago, but also like "Old New York." A man is showing me a map, and telling me I have to take the 6, 7, 9 train out to a certain stop in Brooklyn, over a certain bridge (I forgot the name). He asks if I understand; I do. So I set off on this train, relaxing in a train compartment much like the 6 person train compartments on the European trains, but again with that early 20th century feel, down to the cloth seats and curtain over the window. I am there with my wife and another friend. My wife is asking me if it's true that I ran guns. She asks this without judgement or fear - more like amusement, as if she were asking me if it's true I like to watch a certain, trash reality show and is surprised and humored that I do. I answer that no, I didn't run guns. I just happened to know someone who had good reason to acquire guns, and I knew someone else who could hook him up. So I introduced the two and let them take it from there.

We arrive in Brooklyn, disembark the train and walk out of the subway tunnel into a field nestled in a heavily wooded area. We really are in Old New York - this part of Brooklyn hasn't even been settled yet. It's beautiful, and we just take it in for a few moments. There is the occasional person coming towards us across the field, making there way to the train. All are dressed in turn-of-the-century clothes. I remember then that I need to find a man by the name of "Bob." There's a guy coming up the path who might very well be the person I'm looking for. He's dressed in brown, workingman's clothes with a cap. He's young with red, curly hair and freckles, and looks every inch the Irish immigrant. He's pointedly not looking at us as he passes, keeping his eyes straight ahead. I say, "Bob," and then again a bit louder as he passes, and he stops and turns. "Bob?" He breaks out into a grin. "Yes - so glad you could make it!" he responds, giving me an enthusiastic hug. We chat about I don't know what, as another mate of his joins us. We're having a lively conversation when two constables walk up and try to cuff us for "disturbing the peace" and perhaps "inciting a riot." This is all very casual and matter-of-factly, not violent at all. In kind, we politely protest, withdrawing our hand so as not to be cuffed, explaining that we're just having a wee little conversation outside the train and will be moving on.

Back in present-day Chicago. I run into an old high school friend, Kryn, who has lived in Chicago since he graduated college. We're back in a beautiful, fancy hotel and seem to have run into each other in the men's room. When we exit, he joins up with his mother and sister, who have no idea who I am, and do not seem interested in talking to the "stranger" Kryn just met, beelining it instead to the bank of elevators. "You really don't recognize me?" I give the address of my father's old office near where the used to live. "Oh!" Kryn's mother says in recognition. "well, hi there." Although she is kind in her response, she and her daughter still seem to be distracted and needing very much to get on an elevator back to their room.

The Nor'easter

I was in a car, in the passenger seat; an acquaintance from high school (James?) was driving. It was just after dawn in morning, though there was no sun. Instead, outside there was cold rain beating against the car as we drove down the docks. We were going fishing. I humorously note that I forgot to bring a raincoat. I appear to respect this acquaintance of mine quite a bit, as a part of me really wants to impress him.

We get to the end of the dock, massive cargo ships towering above us on all sides, and park. We duck into a building that appears to be as tall as the surrounding ships.

We are then high up in this building, looking out over the storm-tossed bay through a large, windowless opening in the concrete. My fishing partner says we need to get a hold of Steve for the boat. I comment that, "Hey, I know Steve! I have his number in my cell." (While thinking to myself that I don't know him as well as I'm indicating, as I only met him last term in a physics class) I check my cell and have a humble realization: "This is my new cell and I haven't transferred Steve's number over to it yet. So I don't have his number with me."

Next, I'm far down inside this building. I'm in a nasty public bathroom with my family. Must be unisex, 'cos my wife is standing there holding my daughter and my son is peeing in the urinal. I've already done my business, and am closer to the subway-station-wide stairway that leads back up to ground level and the rain. There are puddles of pee all over the floor, as well as the occasional fecal dropping. I notice an odd, dirty, disturbed-looking man slowly making his way up the stairs, looking back with an impish grin on his face. When he's about half-way up the stairs, he turns so that he is facing back down into the bathroom, pulls the top of his pants down - just enough to pull out his privates - and begins masturbating. At this point he's noticed that I've seen him, but doesn't seen to care in the least. He just happily continues.

I'm appalled and angry, this being a family restroom 'n' all. I march up the stairs, and the man seems genuinely surprised when I haul off and deck him. I punch him a couple more times, he swings at me, and I use the old Aikido move to direct his swing downwards, so that he essentially throws himself down the stairs. I go down the stairs to throw a couple more, until I'm satisfied that he's not coming up to retaliate. In the interim, two other nasty-looking guys (what are they - sailors from the cargo ships?) have exited their bathroom stalls and are looking on. One is odd in that he's maybe only four to five feet tall, but his body is massively over-developed from the waist up. Though both seem in their eyes to be as unbalanced as the first guy, they are only mildly interested in what is going on and show no interest in getting involved. Meanwhile, I can tell by my wife's eyes that she's freaking out a bit, so we wash my son's hands, guide him through the feces minefield that is the floor of this place, and back up the stairs.

Then we're somewhere in the building again high above the bay, this time in an apartment of some sort. It's small and cramped - kinda like the inside of a houseboat - and the cold rain is still whipping around outside, violently slapping the windows that cover half this room. My wife, my sister and I are the only ones there, and we're packing as we will be leaving later. Since my wife couldn't see what happened on the stairs earlier - and my sister wasn't there at all - I describe (and curtly illustrate over my pants) what the perv had been doing. We're all a bit anxious now, as we know that this place we're renting is not secure and anyone - including these freaks - could come in and take our stuff while go out one last time. My sister has an idea of hiding a key inside under one of the bunks, which although she's very assured about this course of action, makes no sense at all.

After that, I'm in the back of the cramped apartment, and my high school acquaintance and I are trying to get our tackle together for the fishing we're still going to do. Either my sister and/or my wife are hanging out back there too. Unfortunately, we seem to be a bit short on tackle. Worse, we seem to have almost no line. This does not seem to concern my fishing mate, so I try to take it in stride too. I look in my box and realize I also have no lures. Still, we're going to give it a shot...

The Ten-Bulb Pitch

At first, it was a report, much like a news report but I seemed to be there witnessing it. There was a man who I believe had already been apprehended; however, I was learning of deeds via voice-over while watching some typical moment in his day. Evidently, this slightly overweight man of average height man and sandy-brown hair was a true sicko. He engaged is sexual activities so disgusting and violating, the v.o. wouldn't even name them. And while the narrator continued, I watched as the man entered a grungy backstage area from what must have been a musical performance, and three other men with guitars entered with him (two 6-strings and a 4-string bass). The three other men - and they were obviously men - were dressed as women, and our perp was screaming at them that they could not use the men's dressing room, pointing to the women's dressing room and telling them that that's where they belonged.

The next thing I knew, I was in a very comfortable, minimalist, artistically high-end office, pitching a new television show to a woman in her mid-30s. She showed no interest in the script, but I noticed two rows of five, red bulbs displayed on her wall, and walked over to look at it. I asked her how much she would give me for the idea, and she replied, "five thousand." Looking at the bulbs, I knew that I could ask for double that, that I could ask for 2x5,ooo. So I said, "How about ten thousand?" And she replied, "Very well then. Ten thousand, and that will be seed money for you to produce the first episode, and I want to see a script for the second."

Now I was back with the members of that band, though they were no longer dressed as women and the man purported to be a degenerate was no longer around. We were in a room that had a small stage in one corner with guitars, drums, keyboards - a whole set-up to practice and record. I told them about the deal I struck, and we were all excited to get started on it.

So I'm in a coffee house to work on writing the second episode. Although the establishment is windowless and not brightly lit (the whole dream, in fact, has a subdued, amber look to it), it appears to be immensely popular, and I seem to feel very comfortable going here to work. I am at the counter getting a muffin and coffee when I run into the woman who bought the script. We sit together in the raised section in the back and I show her what I have written so far. She is very critical of the script, instantly editing it and rearranging the events. She is not, however, unkind. She says, "You have a great comic sense, but you have much to learn in writing a TV script."

Now it's another time at the coffee shop, and I'm sitting with Andy, telling him what this lady said. I remember now that the concept of the script was initially Andy's and that we're doing this as a team. He asks, "Didn't you sing her the theme song? She needs to hear the theme song!" And then Andy promptly launches into the theme song, which I enjoy.

And we're back in the band's practice room. Everyone from the dream so far is there, with the exception of the serial pervert. Lots of activity, as we seem to be about to rehearse the theme song.One of the band members is telling the TV lady about my great hollow-body, Ibanez guitar. I look for it, think I've found it, but instead find a thinner, black hollow-body, much like I'd imagine the Beatles played in their early days. It's beautiful, I even strap it on and hit a couple of chords, but it's not the guitar I need. I eventually find my Ibanez, and we proceed to play...

The Only Disclaimer

These are my dreams. Unedited, unabridged, standing alone outside the context of my life. I will not venture to explain, post by post, how this odd piece or that potentially incriminating item came to inhabit my dream. I will not explain away the embarrassing with some mundane anecdote from my day prior. Instead, I will allow the dreams to stand on their own, to be interpreted as you please.

If such writings amuse you - enjoy.