Dreams: September 3, 1997

soup & soul

I'm in a restaurant with three women friends. An older woman waitress takes our orders; she's big and tall, with short dark hair. The menu has many soups that sound wonderful. The friend on my left orders oatmeal.

The waitress then brings us our food. We had all ordered "BIG" bowls, yet the waitress brought out four tiny bowls for our table. The soup looks incredible, with colorful ingredients and bread on the side. "Wait," we tell her, explaining that we ordered big bowls. The friend on my left adds that she wanted oatmeal, not soup. Our waitress says "too bad, you have to take what you get." This makes me mad. We deserve to get what we ordered.

I get up to talk to the management, walking over to a counter to explain the situation. The manager people agree, saying that our waitress has been a problem. The say that if she drinks ___ (some typical drink), it will kill her fetus.

Suddenly I feel like I'm watching a music video. The women with whom I was sitting are now on stage in the restaurant, singing a powerful song. They're all black. The song is soul. They each hold a pastel-colored planning calendar, seemingly representative of themselves. They are a big hit in this place.


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