Posted by: normanlgreen | January 29, 2013

Dream, January 29, 2013 Rocket Return and Travel Scam


Dream, home, 4:18 am

A filthy band of squatters has moved into the top floor of an abandoned office building. Their clothes composed of rags and tough-wearing cast-offs, have been reduced to a neutral brown. The building, a square block with flat roof and no design character, may be occupied by tenants on the lower floors, but this group has pulled electrical lines from between broken ceiling tiles to serve their simple power needs. Their eyes make it clear that I am to pass through their dominion as quickly as possible.

In the next office space, void of the cubicles that once subdivided it, two men wait for me. Several years ago, these two launched a model rocket from the roof of this office building. Now the rocket has returned. They show the missile, a G.I. Joe doll strapped to a length of pipe by electrical tape. One Man points to a hole in the ceiling, barely larger than the diameter of the rocket-doll. A battered conference table stands beneath the hole, so I cannot visually align the hole in the water-stained ceiling tile with that in the corrugated roof, but a little sunlight brightens the space between the two. The men are proud and amazed that the rocket returned to the launch location. The tribe in the next room must have informed them when the missile crashed.

I leave them to wonder at the slim chance of the rocket’s return.

The next room to the West functions as a waiting room & cocktail bar for an airport. The walls to the North and to the West are fully covered in windows. I do not look out of them but sense the light and heat. I have an appointment to meet with a woman with whom I am to pull-off a scam on the airline that serves this terminal. The woman meets me at the bar and hands me two sheets of paper. The letters promote a special offer from the airline. I reach into a bag and remove a disposable razor – light weight, blue handle. I dip the razor into her drink, then, drawing the blade down the face of the first sheet, I shave away the print, leaving the background image, a screened-back (faded) Hawaiian landscape. The text peels away to allow us to alter the offer in print, so that we will travel for free. One piece of the print subterfuge is no good without the other, so I start on the second sheet, dampening the paper before commencing the shaving of the text.

I am distracted by the arrival of a man I suspect of being a detective from the airline. When I return my attention to the sheet on which I perform my surgery, the ink has set in long smears. We will have to work on this further at home. I collect various objects, keys, papers, bag, overcoat, etc., into my nervous hands. The detective speaks over my shoulder, offering to help. My partner has departed for her car, while I am left with her bar tab. I put things down and offer the bar-keep my credit card. She brings me a printed slip on which I have trouble calculating the tip. I write over my own numbers, making a mess of my disastrous hand-writing. She leans over my struggle and comments on my “Higher math.”

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