Posted by: normanlgreen | August 19, 2011

Morpheus Interruptus and Honeytown


Dream cut short by dog barking as son returns home in the early hours.  I recall a gang of three identical red-headed hipsters in square rimmed glasses and stingy brim hats trotting past me and shooting me a look of distrust.

from one year ago today (8/19/2010):

The last dream this morning had two distinct sections: the theatre and the honey town.

In the theatre, I am working with the Monty Python troupe performing a selection of sketches old and new.  Cleese stands onstage with his back to the audience while someone reads out an endless list of crimes committed by the defendant in a court case. Cleese tries to maintain interest and a stiff upper list while the charges go on so long and become so petty that even the judge loses interest. After the show, on the stage right wing, Terry Jones and Michael Palin and myself along with some of the stage hands are eating from a little tray of cold cuts and what have you. Everyone seems pleased with the reception to the show. I am mostly pleased to realize that there is a house crew that will do all of the cleanup and that there is a prop man making inventory for the next night’s show.

I leave. It is dark, and as I work my car out of an awkward parking lot, I see a young girl hitchhiking. I offer her a ride back to town. She gets in and tells me that what she really wants is to get something from the roadside honey vendor who has a shack on the other side of the road. I drive over there and we find a small shanty town has sprung up with everyone selling something related to honey. We go into one place that is a reasonably complete building that has souvenirs and candies in the lobby and has rooms for rent. The sun has come up and everything has honey toned light – like some mornings at the old Texas Renaissance Festival.  The lobby is crowded with guests and the walls are of varnished wood with red and golden grain.  My young friend picks through the display baskets looking for the honey treat she wants to buy – little hand blown glass wands for dipping into honey pots or honey straws or waxy comb carved into chewy candies. The owner of the building is a white-haired  lady who seems flustered by all of the traffic through her home, but she has hired a more aggressive woman to manage the hotel. In an alcove under the stairs, I end up on the phone with some old gent in the town up the road where we had been heading – I guess I was waiting to cancel my reservation, having decided to stay on in honey town. I am on hold a long time and when he finally comes back on, I am apologetic for having tied up the phone line only to let him know that I am not coming.

I am struck by the pleasant feelings I have for both of the places and the willingness of all the characters to get along and adapt to the changing circumstances. The theatre might well have been the one at Spring High School, with a bit of the Mount Baker blended in. the shanty town / honey town seems to have been carved out of the big thicket – ponderosa pines and live oaks and the wonderful morning light of late spring.

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