Posted by: normanlgreen | April 29, 2012

Dream, April 29, 2012 stingers & stilts


Dream, home, 3:38 am

A seaside hotel from the late 1950s. When I turn back the bedclothes, we discover a a cluster of insects. They gather around their queen and do not use their wings or their stingers – yet. They have that potential. We slide the sheet to the edge of the bed and scoop most of the insects into a zip lock bag. A few fly away at a lazy speed. Through the safe clear wall of the bag I see that they are uniformly marked: shiny black bodies two centimeters long with one large white spot covering a third of their backs. They remain in a protective clump around their queen.

I take the bag outside to drown them in the sea.

At twilight, the guests of the hotel have gathered in the warm evening to rest in the water near the shore. Some have set up plastic furniture so they can lounge in the sea. The surf is gentle and the water has a milky color due to the fine white sand. Further out, the sea is an impossible aqua. We may be on the East coast of the Yucatan. I walk several hundred yards to the South, first passing groups of adults, then children before finding an unoccupied stretch.

I step into the warm water and plunge the bag beneath the surface. Opening the seal, I let the water seep in, then scoop it forward to fill it to good measure. I re-seal it and carry the bag back to shore.

On my walk back to the hotel, I encounter a group of adults sitting on lawn furniture they have carried into the sea. They sit in a semi-circle near the low limestone seawall on which I walk. A plastic cooler of bottled beer is sunk into the water beside one man, the unofficial head of their group.

He calls to me, holding up a half-full long neck bottle. He asks me “What’s in the bag?” “Drowned bees” I answer, knowing that they are not bees, but not having a correct name for them. The man and all of his friends wear orange tinted tans and faded flower-print bathing suits. The women in his group – he is the only man – smile but do not speak as he offers me a beer. I decline. He mutters something vulgar, just loud enough to know that I heard him. I step closer and explain that I used to be on the US drinking team, but decided to retire. He is alright with that and relaxes his challenging posture. I tell the group that I will return after I have disposed of the bag.

Near the seaside entrance to our room I pass into a secluded garden with greenery blocking the view of the water. There I meet one of the people with whom I share the hotel room. He has found four strange objects. They are of two designs: one pair is of a yard long corkscrew shape, a heavy spring of six inch diameter with a point on one end and a straight length of a foot and half at the other; the other design looks more industrial, with two orange painted interlocking square tubes and a rubber foot at one end. When depressed, the device give a squeak from a spring load built into the interior. It sounds like an old bed spring. We decide that these are two types of stilts. I slide onto my legs the pair that are all spring, while my friend straps on the squeaky industrial pair. We set off around the hotel and into an open field to the West, the sun just setting as we bounce a half-dozen yards at a step.

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