Posted by: normanlgreen | August 2, 2011

Dream August 2, 2011

Dream, home, 6:23 am

Many people I know have gathered in a large house owned by an older gentleman.  I arrive with my brother carrying our clothes in backpacks.  We are shown to a suite of rooms on the second floor where we will share the place with some other guests.  There is to be a wedding, and all of the guests have prepared entertainments or brought entertainers with them. We stash our bags and separate as we move through the rambling house.  Days have now passes, and I realize that I have yet to get back to the room where my clothes are stored.  I wear someone else’s cutoff jeans and they are smudged with rust where I have rubbed my hands.  To get to the room where I should find the backpack, I have to pass through a room where some friends are giving a short play.  Mikey from Akansas is seated on stage in the middle of a medium-sized family room.  People sit on couches to watch the performance.  I have to pass behind the cast, which is rude, but I am uninterested in seeing this play.  When I get back to the suite of rooms, I find no bags.  I search the adjoining room and its closets.  The owner of the house returns and expresses regret for letting us stay.  “You treat this place like a concentration camp,” he barks.  I look around and see a very tidy room, but still no bag.  I resolve to stay in my grubbies and to get away from the host.  The next room has been set up for a musical concert.  I stand in front of the mike stands and look up at the man singing into one of the microphones.  The first is Frank Zappa, who sings forcefully.  The second guitarist turns himself and his acoustic around to face the audience from center stage.  They recognize him as a clean-cut country star and respond with oohs and ahhs.  He sings into the mic, & though I can hear him because I stand so close, he is not amplified by the PA system.  I follow his mic cable back through the crowd and toward the sound mix board.  I find the unplugged end of the cable and hold it up to the sound man.  He is unsure where to plug it in as he has just sat down because no one else was taking care of the mix.  He rotates the mixing board and we find an opening in the first channel and plug in the cable.  By now the show has shifted towards us.  I find, just behind me to the
right on stage, that there is an unused & untested mic on a boom stand.  I take it in my hands and lean towards center stage like a crooner and sing in  gravelly imitation of Johnny Lydon “rock and roll swindle.”  I see Lydon sitting on the back of the couch up against a picture window overlooking a tree filled valley.  He is disinterested in my imitation.  The show goes on.  Zappa has arranged a full production with props and sets.  This sequence involves a king sized bed where he and his wife lay among fluffy white comforters and have a giant projection screen behind them which shows their nightmares.  He continues to sing and narrate from the bed as movies show the threat of the military-industrial complex intercut with surreal details — missiles fire from Polaris submarines cut in with shots of vegetables, etc.

I leave to visit a school next door, a brown brick cluster of one-story buildings of the early 60’s California model. It is afternoon and the kids have either left or are inside, as I see none of them.  I pick up some trash that blows around in the covered outdoor cafeteria and take it to a trash bin.  The bin has a sign on it that reads “It is NOT the SIZE of the NET.”  They have stretched a chain basketball net over a wire frame and lined it with a clear plastic liner.  The intention is to shame the kids into not missing the basket when they throw away their lunch trash.  I have some difficulty forcing the wads of paper into the opening.  To the open courtyard to the South, there are many food vending windows built into the school structure, and most have hand-written signs inviting those over 21 to eat for free.  I get to a window as it closes.  Two adult men sit in the sun on a bench mounted to a wall near the closed window.  They are mad at me and at the man I walk with.  They say it is our fault that they will get no free food.  I sit beside them with my back to the setting sun.  One of them has a pockmarked face and a baseball cap and heavy framed eyeglasses, both formed out of thick plaster of paris and hand-painted i fading tempras.   He moans about his life.  Aafter all these years, he finally has a girlfriend, and they have been carnal one time, and now she is pregnant.  He throws himself back on the bench towards his unsympathetic friend and moans, “at least you had a life.”   It is a complain, but with an implied brag as regards his virility.   I leave to walk back to the guesthouse, passing through a line of frustrated looking adult men of various ages and looks.  All of them appear tough, and many carry basketballs.  They each want to corner someone and throw their ball at their victim with the intent to hurt.  The men who really want to cause pain have wrapped their basketballs in cellophane.  One of these approaches me, his friend backing up slightly to give room for the entertainment of my beating.  I say,“Hey, I am a guest here.”  He sniggers and prepares to bash me with the ball, but he loses control of it.  I catch the fumbled ball and throw it far over his shoulder.  He takes off at a trot to retrieve it, so I have only delayed an inevitability.  The sun has gone behind a line of hills.  Looking in that direction I see a woman running, at super-human speed, down the hill beside one of the sections of the single-story school complex.  She skids to a stop beside me.  It is my friend Marilyn and she wears a huge smile and is excited to show me her shoes – replicas of the ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz.  They are rendered in clear red plastic.  I say, “Dorothy, get me out of Kansas.”  Marilyn throws an are across my shoulder and we walk toward the hill.  I marvel at her ability to run in those heels.



  1. yeah, I get to be in Norman’s dream. Excellent! I sure would like to subscribe to posts to this blog. No RSS feed???

    • i believe i have unlocked the RSS feed a couple of time — it shows in the preview, but never on the page — i will have to do more homework.


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