It's a Masonic initiation, only it's also like being called to the Torah because I'm called up to the altar to read from the Scriptures. One of the Brethren reminds me I'm supposed to take my hat off, and I look around for my kippah, which I'm allowed to wear. (This actually happens to me in Lodge.) Then there's a set of ritual objects, or 'working tools', displayed, only instead of the square and compasses etc., it's the Marine Corps emblem.
I've no idea what to make of all this, but there it is. So now you've had a peek at the weird stuff that rolls around in asher63's subconscious.
My Dad's in this one. I'm getting on a train, and I'm going to meet him somewhere later on. Then there's something about my luggage - maybe it was on a different car and it got separated from the rest of the train.
I don't remember much now, it's mostly gone. But I'm going to start keeping my dream journal again; I stopped for a couple of years and I've been missing doing it.
I'm back in the town where I grew up, driving down Avery Street. My Dad is in a car a little ways behind me, and I wait at the corner for him to catch up. Pretty soon we arrive home.
Stephanie - who has been missing for some time, it's unclear why - appears at the door. By this time our father is asleep. She talks about wanting to die. "Why do you want to die," I ask her, thinking maybe if I listen and understand, maybe I can help her to not want to die.
"I don't feel like I'm good at anything," she says. "If I died, would anybody miss me?"
There's a notebook in her hand, with a page full of her drawings and doodles. Wherever she's been, it seems she has been following current events, because her next story seems to be something about Mohammed. I think it is called "Mohammed and the Feather".
I want to talk to her, tell her how much I've missed her, but the words won't come. I just hold her little body in my arms and start sobbing until the tears come.
Then I wake up, and remember how long she's been gone, and that she's not coming back.
The zombies were bad enough.
But then I ran out of coffee.
It is evening. I am strolling through the stone arches of Tel Aviv's Old City with a group of friends, perhaps tourists. "Most people don't know this," I say, "but it's actually larger and older than the Old City of Jerusalem." Eventually the group disperses and we all go our separate ways. I duck into a late-night café; it's in an Ottoman building with ceramic tile ornaments in the style of Yaakov Agam. I see a woman I recognize from earlier - an attractive, forty-something redhead. She is now looking despondent and gazing into her coffee. We talk for a few minutes, and then walk out into the night together. And then I wake up.
Of course, Tel Aviv doesn't have an "Old City" (unless it's Jaffa) - Tel Aviv itself is barely 100 years old. But it would make a great title for a story.
I am exploring, Indiana Jones -like, some ancient tomb covered with mysterious inscriptions. I've been told that the writing was carved into the stone with the teeth of rabid cats and bats. I make my way among very live spiders.
I'm in a MacDonald's in Tehran. By chance, I look up and see - either directly through the window, or reflected in the glass - a familiar figure: the scruffy beard, the cruel, arrogant smile, and the famous eponymous dinner jacket. He's surrounded by officials and bodyguards and he appears to be sitting down to a meeting in a neighboring building.
"He's here! Everybody get down!" somebody shouts in English (or else I can understand Farsi). Everyone in the restaurant dives under the tables. I steal a peek out the window in time to see a blinding flash, followed by a series of ear-splitting booms. Glass and overturned tables are everywhere, but people are cheering. Then there's the sound of sirens, but it's all over.
Best. Dream. EVER.
I'm in San Francisco with a small group of people, maybe a tour or a seminar. We're listening to an old beatnik giving a talk. He puts a plastic tub on the table in front of him, puts a few objects in it. "This," he says, pointing to the tub, "is what we know." Then he takes out a length of string and tosses it in the air. "And this is our questions." The string falls partly across a corner of the tub, but most of it lands outside of the tub.
The beatnik won't give his name, but he knew Kerouac and was friendly with the people mentioned in "On the Road" - although, he hastens to add, he himself isn't mentioned in the book. He also knew Stephanie. Because of this connection, I get to spend some time talking with him alone - the rest of the tour group has moved on - but I don't remember much of what we talked about.
There was a building with some columns - this must have been a retreat in the woods - and the question had once come up whether to paint the columns in a way that would make them look like trees, or somehow enhance the perspective so that they would appear taller than they really were. But the beatnik had been against it because he didn't believe in tampering with reality in that way.
And that's all I remember.
Last night I dreamed I was trying to get home on the bus; ended up taking the crosstown bus to Burnside. Definitely one of my more prosaic dreams, but hey, a dream is a dream.
Heard from an old friend recently. Always a good thing.
New goal: Do some creative writing every day.