Posted by: normanlgreen | February 2, 2013

Dream, February 2, 2013 Firebomb & delayed Flight


Dream, home, 3:38am

A mad genius and I share a rambler house from the late 50’s in a cloudy neighborhood that backs up to a government complex. He has built an incendiary bomb and set it in the back bedroom of our brick home. His plan, gleefully explained, is to let the house burn down, and in so doing, set fire to the government installation across the back fence. He will hop the fence and prepare the next building to catch fire “there are many undetectable propellants,” he tells me with a smile. I do not want to get caught up in his plan so drive away in a large and heavy sedan from the early 70s.

I arrive at my new house for the first time. It stands in a suburban neighborhood with curved driveways that run close to each other — narrow strips of grass as medians between lots. The car makes smooth turns but has a wide radius, so in positioning my car in the drive, I run across the strip of grass, gouging the lawn. My new disgusted neighbors hold me responsible for everything that is wrong with their property. I am given a long list of repairs. The dark-haired woman insists on taking my hammer so she can pound the dirt in a flower bed that I have filled with loose earth. I pull the head off of the handle and pass it to her.

On the opposite side of my new home – which I have yet to visit – is another house. A young woman walks across the lawn where I struggle to repair a deck. She needs to meet someone at the airport. I drive her to a half-developed airstrip. All of the buildings are temporary – construction shacks on blocks. We wait in a milling crowd. A loudspeaker blares that the flight will be delayed. The girl is hungry, so we walk through the chain link gate to a dingy coffee shop. As we are about to order, a small jet tears the evening sky a dozen yards above us.

“That’s him,” the girl says. The guest she is to meet is the pilot.

We walk back around the corner. I reach into my pocket for my passport. I cannot feel it. I pat myself down and am relieved to discover it in the pocket of my windbreaker. We pass a line of security guards. They whisper to one another as we cross in front of them.. When we get to corner of the shack, we present our papers, handing them through a window to a security guard. She flips through the pages of my little blue book, shaking her head with a smile. She cuts her eyes up to me:

“You’re the kid today,” meaning that I will be interrogated.

“It’s because I’m Canadian.” I say.

“Sure it is.”

 

5:52 am

 

Let’s give a nod to toys begun

to toys begun

but never finished

let’s raise a glass to dreams undone

to dreams undone

– woman’s voice double-tracked

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Responses

  1. i like that you tagged this incendiary.

    • i like that you read the tags.

      keep flying, nlg


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