dreams: Tuesday, January 2, 2001

the attraction of desserts

I go into a restaurant with Mom. There are many desserts out on tables in one section. It's late, and they are getting ready to close. A woman who works here is talking to me. She says that the staff here has dinner together after they close. I mention that she must look forward to that; she apathetically shrugs in response. I really want some dessert.

Then I'm inside a house. All the dessert platters from the restaurant are now out on tables here in this kitchen. I'm eating some cookies and other treats.

holding onto my armload of cash

I'm standing on a street. A person rushes past me, dropping a huge, loose pile of cash on the sidewalk/street. There is a wide range of values, from $1 to $100. I quickly grab as much of the pile as I can carry in my arms. I run into the street to try to get to the other side. Taxi cars are coming towards me. I feel like I'm now running from the law, with other people on my tail. The taxis are trying to stop me. I make it across the street to the other sidewalk, accidentally dropping bills onto the ground. [For a moment this dream is lucid, and I think about how I have some control over the situation. I try to make it all safe for myself.] I go into a shop. There is a couple outside - a man and woman who are trying to find me. They want to come take the money away from me. I close the door of the store behind me, hoping to lock them out. Inside I see the store is stocked with fancy clothing, purses and hats. We're in a big city. The style of this shop is for old, rich people (like in Florida).

I ask the woman working there for a purse. I need to hide my stash of money. I pop into a dressing room and stuff the cash into a big black purse, arranging other belongings on top of it to hide the money. Then a woman comes into the store with a gun for a holdup. She doesn't even know about my situation. She's going for the shop's cash register.

turning dreams into reality

I'm at the top of a cylindrical, tall building-structure. It's part of a game show, like Jeopardy. The host is asking the questions from the top of another tall shape. Two other contestants are with me. I look down below us and see plants and shrubs covering the ground. We jump off the cylinder, dropping down onto the plants below.

Then I'm in an airport, trying to figure out my plan, looking at my tickets. I need to get from here to San Francisco (or Los Angeles?). I need to get my bags and then wait here for a long time. I'm in San Francisco.

I see Bart Alexander on a nearby bench. I go sit down and talk with him. We hold hands. I see a crowd walking through the airport in front of us; they just arrived. I notice that there are a number of people from Ashland High School who graduated in Bart's class. Megan Friedman-Smith and her girlfriends are here. Megan has permed her hair to have tight curls. I mention to Bart that there are a lot of graduates from our high school, and he watches them with me. Then I notice some people from my class. They are random faces of classmates I haven't thought about in years. Theresa Riggs is here.

Finally I decide to get up and talk to some of them, to join the crowd. There are a whole bunch '95 grads here now. They are standing around talking to each other. I see Dylan (reddish curly hair, freckles, dimples), and we make eye contact for a second, but he turns away, his back to me. He doesn't acknowledge me in any way, which I tell Bart. I stand up and join them. People are trying to remember names, testing each other. One short girl with a familiar face takes my hand and asks if I know her name. I can't remember. "It starts with a G," I say, and she nods. I guess a name, but it's wrong. "Oh, I know! It's Gretchen," I'm right.

Then I start a conga line, with people lining up and putting their hands on the person in front, dancing forward. Everyone is now in the line. I'm in front, leading the whole thing. I circle around and join the last person to form a completed circle. Then I subtly disconnect, going back to the bench with Bart. Susan Thesenga is here now too. We watch the crowd. My classmates are walking up to the top of a higher level; it looks like a tall wall. Many of them are wearing red. They jump down to the ground. It's a high distance to fall, and it looks dangerous to me. I look around and wonder if they're going to get in trouble. They look like daring, rebellious teenagers. It looks like peer pressure, like everyone's doing it.

There is no ceiling here, and a big blue sky stretches over us. Some of the people on the wall are now leaping upward, flying into the sky. They simply stretch their arms forward to form individual winged contraptions that carry them up to get them where they want to go. I recall fantasizing about being able to fly when I was a little kid, friends with these same people. I realize that they now have the power to manifest their dreams into reality.

There are many whitish clouds in the sky. They are moving very quickly. It looks like the fast-forward motion of a video recording. They sparkle. I comment to Susan about how much my eyes can see in the sky, yet my mind doesn't acknowledge it as real. Auric energy levels. The clouds are rushing along certain planes, curving up and down in waves, moving really fast. It's beautiful and unusual.

Then Susan says something about what happened at 2 o'clock in the morning. I'm now back in my room, and I see food she left for me on shelves next to my bed. She left it all here during the night, when I was asleep. I see cheeses and yeast-free breads. She bought it all at a store.

the eye of the beholder

I'm with Donny Roze. We are fixing wires on a wall. When we finish, we leave, going out to a car. We step over people who are stretched out on the ground sleeping. We get into a convertible car parked in the street nearby. Donny is now John. He wants to listen to particular music. I put in a tape of my mix. It's not quite what he wants. I think about how it sounds bad when I'm with someone who doesn't like it, but it sounds good when I'm by myself or in an accepting context.

the untainted purity of baby feet

I'm with a fat baby boy who is lying down in front of me. He can talk like an adult, even though he is really young. I'm tickling his round feet. He's laughing. He says it doesn't tickle him, but I don't believe him. I'm enamored by the softness of the soles and toes, noticing that they've never been used yet to support him or touch the ground.

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