Monday, April 8, 2013

Dream, Dream, Dream

When you write down your dreams, write in the present tense, I was told.  I wrote down my dreams for years.  Not that my dreams are particularly interesting to anyone other than me, but I'm sometimes surprised by them.  Mostly I like that I came up with them, suggesting I still have some creativity, if I'd just tap it.

For a long time, I dreamed about being in college and realizing that I haven't been to class in a long time, that I don't know what courses I'm taking or where the classroom is.  It had been that I felt guilty about that, because the parents were paying for it.  At some point in this ongoing series, I realize that I already have one degree, so dropping out of college this time won't be all that bad.  I have roommates.  They tend to change with each dream.  So does the dorm room.  I frequently hope that the college won't kick me out before the end of the semester, even if I haven't been going to classes, because I have nowhere to go.

Last night, the dorm room combined with the site of another frequent dream, a large motel, practically a resort.  I look around the motel room.  I have roommates and it's apparent there are three of us because there are three beds as well as three pretty distinct decors.  I want to make coffee (it's been my responsibility throughout my real life) and can't find the necessaries.  I look around to see if I can make do with anything.  It becomes apparent I can't.  I know that there's a strip mall nearby and the rear of it has a few small rooms and that I saw a coffeemaker in one of them.  I go there.  Nada.

Leaving the mall, I round the corner and walk by a room that's had the outside wall blown out.  Two young women sit on the floor.  I say "hello" to them; one of them replies.  I tell her I'm trying to get it together to make coffee.  She walks with me back to the motel room.  As we walk across the strip mall's parking lot, she suggest trying the hardware or grocery store.  I don't have the money.

Back at the room, I find something that might work...a long pipe (metal, not smoking) and I fill it with coffee grounds, then pour hot water through it.  The hot water heats up the metal and the coffee grounds become dislodged and everything pours through.  I'm not pleased.  The young woman expected coffee and I'm not about to give her what I collected from this disaster.  I look around and try something else and this time put a sieve over the bottom.  This actually works.  At least the liquid that pours into the mug is brown.  I tell her we don't have milk.  She says she doesn't need it.

OK, so maybe not my best effort, but at some point I think I want to write more about my dreams.  I've tried a couple of times to write about them generally and maybe this will make it a little more precise.

Or not.

No comments:

Post a Comment