Posted by: normanlgreen | August 25, 2012

Dream, August 25, 2012 junkies in the corridor


Dream, home 8:08am

Working at a ranch. In the late afternoon a crowd of fifteen waits in a pasture for the end of a race between home-made vehicles. One gravel road peters-out at the finish line. Though there is no track, all of the vehicles resemble steam locomotives with a short string of cars behind each. None of them can move very quickly, so it is not much of a race. The last little train pulls to a stop, its passengers look bored. One of them is my eldest son.

He gets out to tell me that he has abandoned an electrical circuitry project – he could still turn in his partially completed assignment in the morning, but he does not have the skill to solder some of the small connections. He believes that he has to invent a variable resister to control the flow of electricity. We walk together as we discuss his frustration.

I open the door to a building and enter a dim service corridor. As I walk inside, explaining to him that he could buy a taper potentiometer to complete the circuit, I hear the metal door close behind me. Seven scruffy me, three to the left and four to the right are taking a cigarette break, leaning against the gray walls or sitting on the shelves, narrow and gray. One of them mumbles at my passing. I cannot make out his words, but his tone is derisive. I ask him to repeat himself, more clearly. He tells me to stop talking to myself.

I look around and find that my son did not follow me into the building. I turn back to the door when one of the young hoods, wearing his first dark and curly beard, mumbles something else from his perch three feet from the floor. I turn to him and tell him how frustrating it is to have a conversation with someone who refuses to speak clearly. All of his dead-eyed friends stare at me. I realize that they have been having more than a cigarette on their break.

Leaping to one of the shelves I reach up with my right arm, I dangle from an overhead pipe and let the rest of my body go limp. “Look at me. All nodded-out. Aren’t I cool?”

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