Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Cam's Truck, Sue's Parking & Austin's Wet Shirt

I'm in the passenger seat in Cameron's truck.His big, beautiful, spotless, white truck. Sue is driving. We're pulling into her driveway and her daughter Zareen's car is parked crooked with the nose facing diagonally towards the right of the garage. I don't think there's enough room but Sue's parked here many times and she is sure it'll fit.
She flies into the garage. So fast I'm sure we'll crash through the wall into the stairwell that leads down to the family room.
We're extremely wedged between Zareen's champagne colored late-90s Chevy Suburban and a "cherry picker" (think that holds motors when you need to work on them outside the car. Also, I have never met Cameron's sister, but I've heard about her a little. I have no idea what car she drives but I highly doubt it's a Suburban)
Sue is determined to close the automatic door with both vehicles inside so she slowly presses the accelerator until the soft, pristinlely painted right corner of the truck is touching a sharp, badly weathered, paint-chipped corner of the cherry picker.
For a moment, I see the car from the outside. The collision is dramatic.I see the tired, mechanical corner digging into the white paint on the bumper, in slow-motion, watching the tiny paint flakes and metal shards fly in the air like an explosion.

Time Travel

Austin is standing in front of Sue and Cam's house in the street. There is a large, old oak tree growing through the asphalt. The street isn't disturbed or broken, it's as if the tree grew there naturally, a soft transition in nature.
He's having an absolute fit about something. He's wearing a plain, white tee shirt and his arms are crossed at his chest, literally stomping/marching around the tree. Red with anger. Reminds me of a child's tantrum.

Time Travel

Austin has his shirt off. He is holding the white shirt in the air and screaming about how his shirt got wet somehow.
He reaches up to the tree and breaks off a large, leafless branch about 4 feet long and thick enough that he can't get his hand all the way around.
He tosses the shirt on the branch and tries clumsily to straighten and spread it out and begins to wave it like a surrender flag around the base of the tree. His expression has gone from complete and utter rage to a little shy and embarrassed. His cheeks have changed from an angry red to a more soft and innocent pink.

Time Travel

All four of us are in the truck. Sue is driving, Cam's in the seat beside her and Austin and I are seated in the back: I'm behind Sue.
She is holding the tee shirt down near her feet on the left side of the steering wheel and she gets a little frustrated and says, "This is a really bad angle for me, my back hurts." She hands me the shirt in a damp wad.
There is a heater in the middle console facing us and I've got mine pretty high and with pretty good force blowing in my face. I move the direction of the slats of the vent, open the shirt as far as I can so expose as much surface area and dry it quickly. The heater is HOT but I let is burn my legs while I dry his shirt.

Then I wake up.

Monday, October 3, 2011

White House on the Cliff and Defending the Cheese

I'm driving at night through on what reminds me of Burlington Blvd.: Well lit streets, light reflecting off of wet asphalt. The road is new so the yellow and white lines on either side of me are bright. It feels like I'm just coming off of Northbound Riverside Dr. which runs parallel to I-5. The road comes to a slope as I come off the bridge. The new stores that are there now are not in my dream: the Best Buy, the Home Depot, the Sportsman's Den just to name a few, aren't there. It's just me, driving alone heading North.
 I feel serious anxiety. I feel like if I'm caught driving around in the middle of the night, my parents will get mad at me.
As I drive, surroundings become less well lit and more small town-ish. It reminds me of Ephrata, WA. There are one or two yellow streetlights that cast a dim glow over all of the vacant store-fronts. Large windows with nothing but emptiness behind them.
The sun starts to come up as I drive further away from civilization. The road which started in a damp Burlington and went through a ghostly Ephrata has taken me to a lonely stretch of dry pavement. Reminds me of I-90 East: wheat fields on either side of me.
Time Travel
I'm at a dead end. There is only one option and that is for me to turn right on to a dirt road. Dry dirt (like Eastern Washington) with rocky pot holes that are impossible to maneuver around.
Time Travel
I'm driving on grass, headed towards a cliff edge. The ground gradually slopes down and a few green blades  hang over the edge. I am seeing the cliff from the side now, briefly, with the shear drop to my left.
Time Travel
I'm standing facing the cliff again and I look down and there is a black, long sleeve wool (or angora, the kind that looks soft and whispy) sweater laying neatly on the ground. It's on a light blue plastic hanger and looks as though someone just took it out of a closet and gently laid it there.
The collar of the sweater with the hook is facing me, if I picked it up it would hang properly with the hanger hooking to the left.
I stare down at the sweater and notice there is a small piece of white cheese (I ate a cheese stick before bed). The piece is perfectly square: about 1" x 1" and 0.5" thick and sits in between the front and back collar (where the tag would be, but about an inch below that). The sunlight reflects just enough to give the skin a creamy sheen.
I want to eat it, but I hesitate. I think I have to save it for a special occasion.
Time Travel
I'm at a fruit stand (reminds me of the one on 99 across from O'Finnigan's near Lincoln Way by my house). With my back facing 99, I'm talking to a man wearing a white collared shirt and starched and pressed khaki slacks with square toed, milk chocolate colored shoes. (Basically like the man in my last dream, but in more neutral colors. He reminds me of the man in the picture I used as a visual aid in my recently posted "Skanky Housekeeping" dream entry).
I am facing him as though were talking, and maybe he is, I'm not sure. I'm preoccupied with the way the yellow canopy is casting a glow over the cantaloupes directly behind him. I steal quick glances to his left as I admire them.
Time Travel
I'm back on the cliff again. The man is with me. I can't see him but I can sense he's there. I'm facing North with the cliff to my right. The sweater and cheese are still there beside me. There is a beautiful white house in the distance: two story, with three windows with black shutters on each floor facing me. The roof is light brown and rounded near the edges (think cottage roofs).
I am a pretty good distance away: it remind me of the space between the dirt road and the Lamb's house (a really creepy large white house on Decatur Island with creepier people living inside).
I look away from the house and down at the sweater and the cheese looks very appetizing. I can imagine the way the shape would feel against my tongue and cheek, the way the temperature would be chilled but not cold, the slippery skin and gently 'pop' as my molars bite down on the right side of my mouth. I want to eat it so bad but I can't. It needs to be saved for a special occasion.
Time Travel
I'm standing in a town that reminds me of an old west movie. I'm facing an old general store front or a saloon: the grey-ish wooden swinging double doors are positioned over a weathered wood porch.
I feel like I'm on a mission. I have something I need to accomplish before I can return to the cliff and claim the house for my own.
Time Travel
I'm traveling back towards the house. Heading West. I'm in some sort of old west transport: either a steam train or a horse-drawn carriage. I'm moving fast, evident by which the amber wheat fields are moving past my window. The navy blue curtains with cream colored lace edges are shaking with movement.
All I can think about is hurrying back to the cliff to stop some girl from eating the cheese and taking the white house for herself.
Time Travel
I'm walking towards the cliff and I see the girl, a blond wearing a pink long sleeve shirt, reaching down towards the square of cheese. I run and slide (homerun style) into the sweater and knock the cheese out of her hand.
Then I wake up.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Alyssa is "The Girl"

When I was 21 or 22, I was having a "sleepover" at my friend Marshall's house.
In the middle of the night, as we were sleeping, the door flew open and the lights slammed on and some crazy chick started screaming at him about who knows what.
I am legally blind (without my glasses or contacts) and since I can't defend myself if I can't see, I scurried under the blanket and curled up in fetal position. Just as my little head went under the covers, a camera or cellphone, or something hit the wall above my head and broke.

I'm standing at my desk, like I do every morning, and Alyssa is over at the reception counter. We're talking about normal things and somehow, the little scenario I've described above comes up in our conversation. So I'm giggling as I'm telling her all the details (because, looking back on it now, it's pretty hilarious) and she is smiling and laughing too and then she says, totally serious, "That was me."
My chin drops to the desk and my eyes get wide, "Whaaaaa...??"
She's all, "I was dating him for a little over a year and one night I decide to come over and surprise him and there's a girl in his bed."
I'm like, "Ohhhh myyyyy Godddd.....That was me!"
Then we laugh hysterically.
Then I feel kinda bad. A year? Ouch. I feel really bad for her.
I tell her I'm sorry and she says, "It's coooool." and gives me a little Alyssa smile.