Posted by: normanlgreen | August 5, 2011

Dream, August 5, 2011


Walking across a field, deep and wide and stubbed in dry brown grass, I spot three red bi-planes flying in formation to the northeast of me.  I want to see them close-up, so I put gravity at bay and float closer, trying not to scare them away.  With some awareness that  this is a dream, I wonder just how detailed they will prove to be as I get closer.  The planes move in tight circles and keep a formation of one wing span between them.  They are hard-shelled, rather than painted fabric with a  deep red finish.  From twenty yard away, the struts and guide wires are vsible, the pilots wear leather helmets and long scarves.  The sound of a helicopter to the right draws my attention — a troop carrier with twin propellers and black paint job.  I give pursuit.  The copter pilot drops his craft behind a large brown cylindrical building standing toward the north end of the field, a hundred yards before a four lane highway.  I settle on top of the building, but cannot see the landed helicopter.  The edge of the roof feels soft to the touch.  

Leap off to discover that I have woken in the basement of my in-laws’ former house up on Crestline drive.  I cross the hall to fill a bathtub.  The shower has been left on and the tub is partly filled. I turn it off then return to my room to get my clothes.  When I get back to the bathroom, the tub has been folded into the wall and the room is being used as a changing room by several guests who prepare for a back yard party.  Outside, thirty or so children  have arranged rows of chairs on the slope of the yard. One little boy has been given the responsibility of taking roll of the attendees.  To get the kids to settle down and give him their attention, he fires a capgun.  A tall girl, perhaps ten or eleven, is at odds with the boy, though you can tell they are fond of each other.  As part of his announcements, the boy tells the children that he has TB.  The girl runs into the house, crying for her father.  She finds her Dad sitting on a kitchen chair.  Like his daughter, the man has long red hair.  Like her father, the girl has a few blue tatoos on her arms, though not so many.  She sits on his lap weeping that the boy has TB.  The father is sympathetic and cuddles her.  She is so frustrated that she bites a tattoo on his shoulder.  He does not flinch, but points to a patch sewn onto his sleevless blue jean vest.  “For every one of these that we sell,”  he says, “we will donate a portion of the proceeds to support Grandmaster Ralphie Barnes.”

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