Posted by: normanlgreen | October 15, 2011

Dream, October 15, 2011 Lady Wrestlers

Dream, Home , 7:08 am

I walk with a group of tourists through neighborhoods of San Francisco. Our group if composed of two families with young children – our own are in their early elementary school years. As we climb down the sidewalk of an impossibly steep hill, I must run ahead to gather our fastest boy, while Sherwin has to lag back to bring our slowest walking child back into the group. The father of the other family retards the speed of a stroller while his children, who are old enough to run back and forth along the road, dip into the doorways of the residences as we pass. The man with the stroller is the only one keep a consistent speed. He loses patience for the inconsistency of the rest of the group. In fact he has sent ahead his even less patient wife to their hotel room, as she will put-up with it no longer. We cross the street where a covered walkway meet the sidewalk at a right angle. This walkway, which runs across the fall line of the hill, gives access to an apartment building.

I have lost track of the others, but meet a woman friend who I have apparently known for some time. She tries to pull herself out a depression. Her problem: she has failed to gain the title of female wrestling champion of the neighborhood. I encourage her to try again. We walk further down the hall which opens up onto an area that has been flattened into a huge parking lot. I feel surprised to find such in San Francisco, but my friend knows her way around. She walks up to a woman who is exiting a car. My aggressive friend swings around the other woman then throws her to the ground. My friend immediately crosses to a pair of women on the other side of the aisle and does likewise to them. She approaches the pay booth for the lot and pulls a blond lady from her seat at the window and flips the attendant onto her back. Now on a roll , she marches with determination to three women who have been having a conversation in an empty space between two sedans. She bashes their heads together as though they were the Three Stooges. No one will challenge her title from here forward.

Back at the apartment house, my friend Shelly (not the wrestler) serves me a cup of tea on a little balcony that hangs over the steep street. Frustrated, she tells me how she has been unable to bring herself to submit for publication a novella she has tinkered with for months. As we talk, I flip through a little coupon book that has come through the mail. My eyes lock on a coupon to order her story as a book. A little bar code at the right edge of the coupon repeats the title of the story “Shame”. I look up to see Muzzy, Shelly’s dear husband. He smiles with out showing his teeth. I know he has decided she has worked on the novella long enough, has submitted it, and it has been published to great success. Muzzy’s face cross-fades with a view of a marquee of a theatre. The letters on the sign announce that the famous story has been adapted into a stage play.


Earworm: Sweet Gypsy Rose


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