dreams: December 3, 1998

pink dried fruit

I'm in a bar club with some friends. They're all rich. One girl orders a bunch of different fruit liquour smoothies; they're spread out on the counter in glasses and pitchers. I taste a couple.

Later, I'm going outside, leaving the building. I'm waiting for my valet to bring me my vehicle. I see Heather Adams (a blond "popular" girl in high school who was a year older than me, very wealthy). She's standing there holding a set of keys. David Rydbom is also out here. They both are in charge of the whole valet service, along with others from the same wealthy social scene. I'm waiting and waiting for my truck. Finally it arrives. The driver's seat is adjusted up really high, leaning forward at a weird angle. I'm in the parking lot next to DJ's. I'm trying to park the truck so that I can go shopping inside the Payless store there. I'm with other people (friends? family?) who have already gone into the store. I fold up my truck and carry it over to a parking space. I unfold it, strapping it down to the asphalt with bungee cords. Some guy comes over to help me. I'm struggling to hook it down.

Then I'm in the store, now in the checker's line. I'm with Mom, John and Phoebe. We're all together. Phoebe has picked out some things for the family to buy. One is a plastic bag full of artificially-preserved dried fruit. It has bright pink chunks and looks gross to me. I tell her we shouldn't buy it. She puts it back reluctantly.

I'm back in a motel room that's connected to the store while Mom, John and Phoebe finish the shopping. I see a shelf with a bag of dried fruit. I open it to taste some. I don't want the prunes, nor the dried pineapple (too sugary-sweet). I need to get ready before we all go to our planned event. I yell out the door, asking Mom how long it'll be before we leave. "5 minutes," she replies. I want to take a shower. I strip down, leaving my clothes on the bed.

I'm a table-top dancer

NEXT, I'm in a big room with lots of other young people. We're all sitting at picnic tables, on benches. It's like a bar, a social hangout. We're listening to a new CD by Ani Difranco (or REM?). I'm talking to some guy about it. "Oh, you mean the one with the bright orange cover?" I ask him. He says yes. The album is called "Ritual and ____(?)." Across the table, Toby Carrier is sitting there looking at me (he's the young high school version of himself). I don't look directly at him, but I know he's looking at me.

An older foreign woman with short hair is at the front of the room. She's the professor. This is a class. Everyone is watching and listening to her. She calls up a small group of students to demonstrate a few things. She calls my name. I get up, surprised she even knew me as "Maya." About five of us go sit at a table in the front. The prof asks us to sing a particular song. The lyrics are on a sheet on the table in front of me. We don't know when to start singing. Finally I realize that the others have already begun singing. It's from the orange "Ritual" album. The song's music is in the background, as the teacher put it on the sound system. I'm totally off, since I can't find where we are in the song. I'm not stressed. I just hope our prof doesn't see that my lips don't match the song. The girl on my left is singing boldly. When it ends the woman then asks the small chosen group to dance to a different song from the same album. She asks us to choose it, encouraging it to be a new style/rhythm (different than the last mellow slow song). Gabe (the beautiful dark Ashlander who I saw at Mihama's last night -- Megan Williamson's cousin) is part of the group. He says we should do "Amen." The prof agrees. I look in my hymn book to find it. I can't find it. It's near the back of the book. I realize I don't really need to see the lyrics anyway if I'm going to be dancing.

The music starts. It has a strong rhythm and sounds exotic, like salsa. I relax into the sounds and start moving my body. It's fun. I feel secure in my body. I look and see lots of Ashland friends sitting in the room watching us. The dancers start moving around the room, between the picnic tables. I climb up on a table and dance on top of it. Miles is seated there with 2 or 3 others. They don't seem to have any reaction to my dancing, as if they barely even notice I'm there. I jump over to another table where many people are sitting, putting my hand on a girl's head for balance. Django is there. I see Anna Winthrop dancing.

I'm moving with the rhythm. A woman's voice is now singing, speaking in another language, Spanish or Portugese. I'm slightly self-conscious of my toes being in the faces of the audience. The music slows. I am lifting my arms in a circle -- to my sides, then in front and back, moving with the slowing pace. Finally I'm just dancing to my own breathing. [Then I peacefully wake up to the breaths.]

- FIN -

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