Posted by: normanlgreen | October 25, 2011

Dream, October 25, 2011 robot vs. the goons

Dream, home, 5:40 am

I have become obsessed with transforming myself into a robot. I cannot afford the whole process at once, but I have manufactured a pair of square shoes with flexible tubes that run up passed my knees. My fiancée knows a young man who will perform a house concert in a dormitory lobby (we are enrolled in school- early 80s in the south). I put on the shoes and shuffle along.  the shoes will only allow movement in perfect right angles, north-south or east-west.  Slowly I make my way beside my sweetheart to the upstairs mini lobby where the singers sits in an armchair, with a coffee table before him. On the table, sheet music is spread. He smiles as we approach and launches into his set. We are the only people who sit and listen as he performs. Others pass on my periphery, but I give the singer my attention. At the end of his number, the bearded kid explains that the performance is based on a canned singer-songwriter package, that he tried out a few different persona and sets of music, but this one really got his interest, so he is taking it around the country.

We rise to leave and this singer kid stays seated. I test my square shoes for traction. They feel odd, boxy, but I must break them in. Leaving the building, it changes into a country store and gas station. As I pass through the door, a young thug blocks my way. He is no taller than I, but broader in the shoulders and carries more weight. His hair is dark, as are his eyes. He appears dangerously intelligent. He wastes not time in letting me know that first they are going to harass me and then they are going to beat me senseless. Two of his goonish friends literally drop into the scene from somewhere above us. They are pudgy with flaming red hair and delighted smiles. I look at the feet of the one in front of me as he prepares to put me into a bear hug. Having no shoes, his freckled toes are exposed – bloated things half the size of my wrist. I out-maneuver this guy – he is not quick, just eager to squeeze. And I engage the first threatening guy in conversation. His twin brother walks up. Even more intelligent and giving me the impression that he would rather there were no fight, He joins the conversation, forestalling my beating as we three circle each other and the parked cars on the dirt road by the antique gas pumps.


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