Posted by: normanlgreen | December 23, 2012

Dream, December 23, 2012

Dream, home 10:00am (nap)

In the sunken courtyard of a 1970s courthouse, I have trouble navigating, stop a judge and explain that I have not been to the city in decades. He explains that there have been many renovations which cut what once was an open space into a series of ramps, elevator shafts and retail spaces.

I forget why I am to go into the court, but become distracted with two young people who attempt to inject a caulk tube into an opening beneath an Automated Teller Machine that is built into one of the brown brick pillars that supports a walkway that runs above us. The teen-aged boy and girl wheel a cart into position before the ATM, but cannot align it. I believe that this is a bad idea, that they and I will get into trouble. But when they succeed, an opening appears on the opposite side of the square pillar. A long wagon rolls out on many wheels like a centipede with miniature tires. I find myself riding on top of the wagon as the three of us liberate the many items that had been stolen from “the people”.

We take the cart of treasure to a warehouse where we uncover a strange and powerful fungus that has been held in suspension. Of the many people working within the warehouse, everyone has their own ideas as to the properties of the fungus, though no one knows for certain. Most go off to meditate on experiments to test their theories. Soon it is discovered the the mushroom doubles in size every two hours, therefore two teams, working in rotation, must adapt the building to the expanding needs of the magical treasure. Iron workers cut plates of steel to extend a ventilation shaft above the building.

I am convinced that one of the properties of the fungus will be a low-power means of flight. A tall man in his late Fifties shares my enthusiasm for the anti-gravity theory. He suggests that we make a paste from the plentiful spore powder. I find some strips of corrugated cardboard on the underside of which we will spread the paste. I am all for diving off of a nearby cliff, but he suggest that we experiment inside. He leaves me to try his test in another room. I place my sheet of cardboard on the concrete floor and sit upon it. I hold the outside edges of the strip of box material, close my eyes and envision an energetic partnership that lifts the board, the paste and myself from the floor. The cardboard makes a sandpaper sound as it slides in a circle around a dip in the floor that accommodates a slotted drain. I do not lose contact with the ground, but the experiment succeeds to the extent that I do not need to add any physical energy to the process, though the drain on my mind is heavy.

I hear voices, release the sides of the cardboard, and drift to a stop.

Two other examine the floor, now covered in swirling green patterns of the paste. I say nothing, but think that I am to harvest the swirls once they have hardened into tiles. One of the visitors points out that there is too much drag from full contact with the floor.

“You may want to try skis,” he suggests.  Though each pursues his or her own theory, all chip ideas to each other — collaborative rather than competitive.

We walk to the far end of the warehouse where other teams follow their intuition regarding the powerful fungus. Stacks of cages hold baby animals, none of the creatures look as though they have been distressed by experiments. A baby bear nestles against my chest and presses his wet nose against my cheek.

Some of the team of revolutionary scientists play a game resembling cricket, to free up their imaginations. One of them steps away from the pitch, inspired during a meditation, draws a teardrop shape on a blackboard. In my mind the shape is altered into three dimensions, with a slot running up from the thick center to the point at the top of the teardrop. Interlocking square teeth line the two insides of the slot, but do not touch. The round portion of the drop becomes a bowl. I know that this is the solution to the issue of drag for my flying machine.


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