Posted by: normanlgreen | January 15, 2012

Dream, January 15, 2012 defending the site

Dream home, 4:48 am

A team builds a custom home on a rock promontory that overlooks a sea channel. Standing outside in the sun, I wait for the woman for whom the work is being done. She arrives via the one road that leads up to the point. She climbs from her car with a huge smile on her face. Just then, a snow storm commences – despite the summer weather that surrounds it. Someone calls out “Watch for the waves.” I turn to watch as the surf breaks over the edge of the granite on which the house has been built. The sea has risen seventy feet, the waves churned white with froth. The water runs around my legs and under the wheels of the car. I think that all of us had the power to make this happen and wonder why they would choose now. I want to blame the woman, but suspect it is all my doing.

Inside, we tour the construction, assessing progress. We have had some trouble with vandals coming onto the site at night. Someone has taken a knife and scraped away the texture that had been sprayed onto the sheet-rock. In this cleared channel they have cut letters into the drywall itself. My fellow contractor cannot read the graffiti scrawl, so I tell him that it says: REVENGE in bathroom and kitchen.

We suspect that the vandals will return this night, so I stay to guard through the night and to take them by surprise, if I can. The sun has gone down and John, a builder, takes a weary seat on a dusty couch. He points above his head at the strange combination of recessed “can” lighting and dropped LED lights. The owner has very specific ideas as to how any person in a room should have her own light source. So every square foot will be lit separately.

I am left alone in the house. I douse the lights in all but one room, a bedroom that has been furnished. I am to keep an eye on a wing of the house, perhaps a garage, that runs parallel to the main portion where I am stationed. A narrow garden space separates my room for the presumed target wing. Time passes without incident, so I put a DVD into the player in the bedroom. This film supposedly depicts the Salem Witch Trials from the defendants’ point of view. Title: Salem Wicked. However, the film won’t play. I open the disk tray and see that only three broken quarters of the disk are in place. I take them out then shake the machine until more silver slivers fall free on the player. I hear someone using a key in the back door. I move quickly to throw away the broken disk, feeling guilty for the breakage and for having neglected my post. I believe it will be my brother to open the door.

Later: I have been taken on an unanticipated trip. Instead of proper luggage, I have pulled narrow drawers from a bureau and taken them to carry my clothes. This leads to my losing all of my socks and underwear. We have been guests in our old house on North Street in Bellingham. It is time to move on, and I must recollect my clothes into the drawers. I can’t tell that which is clean from that which is dirty, as everything has been scattered through the house – socks stuffed between seat cushions, etc. I give up, resolved to buy new stuff at our next stop.

I am to re-visit a low-power radio station that has operated under the FCC radar since the 1970’s. When we pull up in front of the building, I see that it has been remodeled from the shack that I knew in the past. Not only has there been a second story put onto it, but the exterior has been resurfaced with stained wood. Closer examination shows the building bristles with mounted guns: shotguns, rifles and cannons sprout from the walls between the windows. The windows have been professionally lettered with warnings that all intruders will be shot. I know that inside the paranoid broadcaster watches our approach. When we get within twenty feet of the entrance, several of the guns fire in an irregular pattern. I turn to see if any of our party has been hit. I look into the startled face of a mule. For a moment I think he has been hit in his gray forehead, where I see a tiny silver spot. He shakes off the fear and gets angry. He charges past me. I can hear his thoughts: Robert can’t get away with this. The mule runs up to the front door, turns and kicks it open with his hind legs.

Now we are inside, where Robert, the paranoid broadcaster, has been convinced that we are not here to shut him down, but to have a reunion to celebrate the history of this pirate station. Once I am sure that we are all safe, I move into the main room off of the studio, where people share a short photo history of the station. Pictures show Robert with a shorter beard, wearing a blue t-shirt. He looks happy, not fearful.

The young woman who has collected and assembled the photos and a bit of text, sits on the floor in a sleeveless t-shirt. She stretches out on the floor with her elbows crooked behind her, so her torso is held at a diagonal. Her dark curly hair covers her face. A red and black tattoo is visible in the space at the top of her upper arm. I sit behind her on the floor, and she leans into me. I thank her for putting together the history. She modestly says that all she did was copy some pictures. We move to a table and chair set at the front window. I tell her that at least it is a start, and that even if she does not go further in the project, that others will use this for reference. She says, “You are the one with the dream journal.” I nod. She says that she would like to gather more of the stories behind the station before those who remember are gone. I start to weep as I tell her that this is important work. “People die suddenly. They take you by surprise.” I tell her. “And when they are dead, they are dead for a very long time.”


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