Posted by: normanlgreen | April 1, 2012

Dream, April 1, 2012 abandoned conference & boiler works


Dream, home, 8:02 am

I visit an old house for a gathering. We are to have a series of small group meetings with the American poet Robert Bly. I do not want to unpack my suitcase, as we will disperse in a couple of days, therefore, I have to revisit my room to fish around in the case for whatever toiletry articles or pieces of clothing I need.

I leave the room, shared with another man, as we are scheduled to sit together at an old oak dining room table. All of the house is lit as though it were a series of old Kodachrome slides – yellows soft and warm, reds tending to brown, blues and greens so saturated that they look to have been applied to the scene twice. The table has sloppy piles of paper before each of the seats. I consider which place I should take. But as we gather, with Bly arriving at the head of the table, word comes to us, via a young woman, that the police need to inspect our rooms. We return to our sleeping quarters. My room-mate for the conference, a heavyset young man with dark curly hair and olive skin, looks perplexed. He has some doses of psychedelic drugs in his bag. He asks that we split them and eat them before the inspecting officer arrives. I cannot recall eating the drug, but know that I have done so.

Taking my case with me, I walk through an underground maze until I come to a checkpoint where visitors will enter and leave a complex of boiler rooms. Workers move through the space wordlessly. The checkpoint is given over to me along with a stack of papers of various size. Some of the papers are checks, or check stubs, or receipts. Some are paper trash. Nothing is explained to me, as the man who has operated the station cedes the responsibility with a smile.

A mother cat and her two week-old kittens, residents of the cavern, move about at my feet. Her right nostril bubbles with a drop of bright blood. I understand that she is there, not just for varmint control, but as the canary in the coal mine: if she gets too sick, we must evacuate. I am more concerned with her health than that of the visiting tourists, who are here by choice.

One visitor asks me about the workers. I answer that these boilers provide heat for the entire city of Seattle and that one of the stokers is my son. A young fellow with broad shoulders and many layers of clothing passes and turns up a metal staircase – I think he may be my oldest boy, but cannot get his attention, so I never see his face. only a fringe of yellow hair sticking out from a knitted cap.

I look down to the mama cat who now is bleeding from her lower eyelids as well. She has open sores on her back. It is time to get everyone, cats included, out of the boiler maze. The papers entrusted to me have become further disordered. I fear I have lost the checks entrusted to me.

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