dreams: September 05, 1998
making love to a piano and enduring Mom's hot air
NEXT, I'm sitting in the passenger seat of a car. We're driving down A Street, toward Oak Street (near the hardware store). A young boy is driving. His friend is in back. I somehow know them from a long time ago, and we haven't seen each other in a long time. They're younger than me. The boy who is driving asks me if I remember his name; I think about it for a moment but can't remember. He says he'll give me a hint: his initials are W.F. Aha! I immediately know. William Flounders. I tell him, and he says yes. I can picture it written on a card: Billy Flounders. He reminds me of Jesse Adams. Then I'm the big upstairs bedroom of the house, which is now very open and spacious. A little miniature stove/oven is sitting in the center of the floor. It belongs to two boys. I wheel it around and see that it's really easy to plug in. There's a label on it that says to clean it using a dishwasher. I realize that the boys probably use it to make tea when they're playing in this room. I also see a small piano/organ. It has a space to put sheets of music that the piano will then play for you if you simply turn a knob. It's really old and funky. It accidentally does two different songs at once because it has fallen apart so much over the years. I picture the boys having fun with it anyway. I'm now sitting at it, on a small bench. I decide to try giving it some music; I lay two sheets of music down onto it, sticking the little pegs in the holes. I'm wearing tight, tight Levi jeans. As I start to turn the knob in front of me, it somehow stimulates my crotch area, really turning me on. I see that as the music plays, parts of the piano are being lifted up and down, rubbing me in the right places. I'm getting really turned on. The music sounds awful though -- totally off key. I suddenly hear someone coming up the stairs, so I stop. Mom walks in the door. Yet it barely looks like the woman I know. She looks really bad, like she's totally stopped caring about her appearance. She's wearing a ratty old long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Her hair is short on top and long in back, stringy and oily. She isn't wearing any makeup, and her face looks pale, blank and washed-out. The most noticeable feature is that she has lots of facial hair: big, puffy, red-colored sideburns that stretch down over her jaw. She asks me what I was doing. I tell her that I was playing the piano. I look down and see that the piano now looks like a simple round table. Some other people are now in the room. An older man (John Barton?) is sitting across from me. He says that he remembers that he once read a dream of mine on my Web page about a piano and it was very sexual. I laugh, seeing the coincidental connection. I look out the window, down across the alley. Mom's face is in a window of a building there. She's looking in a mirror in a bathroom putting on makeup. It's really hot in this room. The heat is because the home next-door to us (below us, in the alley) is blowing hot air into our window. John and I go over to talk to them about it. We stand in the alley discussing the matter with an older man and woman. We explain that their house in the middle of the alley is inefficient since it funnels hot air right at us. The woman explains that the purpose is to save the costs that her husband would have to pay otherwise.
[Interp: Mom is in the building that is "blowing hot air" into the house where John, Phoebe and I live. The irritating hot air represents how I (we) feel about her role in our lives right now. More specifically, in the dream, the woman's financial justification for the hot air seems to reflect Mom's real life position of stubbornly not paying for any part of our college tuitions.]
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