Posted by: normanlgreen | November 11, 2011

Dream, November 11, 2011


waking words: i’m not killing anyone.

Dream 110309

I have been recruited into a band of some reputation based upon the say-so of one member (keyboards? Gib Ponder connection?) though I have no practical experience. He has the idea that we will write together (with an implication of drinking together).

At one point we are driving through our town. The tourists who once kept it alive are staying away. We drive through a cliff side Haufbrau Haus that straddles the road – I get a glimpse of what it had been like full of guests, then see its current state – abandoned. Red paint letters and highlighted curli-qued rosemalling, fading brown black walls dusted with road grit. As we exit this tunnel – like the shack on a wooden roller coaster – I say that someone with a lot of money, say a Million, could pick it up cheaply and turn it around.

I am taken to a country hotel on vast grounds where the band will practice.  There I am shown a short video that other big bands are playing the music halls found in amusement parks, 6 flags, astroworld, etc. An aerial shot shows the swooped roofed dome structure (Denver) at night. “pink floyd is playing here”. I wonder about my skill set (rhythm guitar and a bit of bass) and how I will fare in front of a crowd – if the band can gather a crowd.

Night is falling and I am helping one of the band members escape, she is a middle-aged woman in Realtor style suit, We sneak across the grounds toward the freeway until we come to a slope down to a chain linked fence. Before she crawls through a hole at the bottom of the fence, she tells me “I just can’t see myself doing this again.” She seems appreciative. I return to the building where the guy who recruited me is in a car with a group of guys going off for a pre-tour party night. I beg off as I am trying to find a particular tool. The hotel is now the private residence (1920’s clapboard) of the band member who objects to my participation. He is out, but I need that tool from his lending collection in the basement – the entrance is at the back of the house. The room has a low ceiling, almost a crawl space, but lit with electric bulbs and criss-crossed by ductwork and pipes with drooping insulation. I understand that I have a disagreement/ competition with the owner (guitarist) regarding a woman. I can’t find the appropriate screw driver in a coffee can that holds a few odds and ends.  Amongst the tools, i find some chips of brown clay plant fossils — like those we collected in Eastern Washington with the kids, when they were small.

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