Posted by: normanlgreen | May 4, 2013

Dream, May 4, 2013

Dream, home, 8:15 am

One set of stairs to go down to the meeting room of the coffee-house. A reading and discussion. Though it is on the lower floor, the room has windows on three sides, as the building sits on the slope of hill dropping to the salt water bay. I have a cup of ginger tea and sit in a corner booth while different readers stand to deliver their piece. We see part of a film about a Spanish bishop in purple robe, black, wide-brimmed hat with a purple hat band. I recognize some of the scenery and ask if this had been shot in Vancouver. Out the window, I see the same street, so get my confirmation.

A waitress comes by to take more orders. I realize that I have yet to pay for the first cup, so carry it to the winding staircase. There I find the down stairs have a set of upward stairs wrapped on the inside of their curve. I walk up a ramp. The ceiling gets closer. A set of four steps are so close to the ceiling that I must tuck my mug of tea into the rise of the lowest step, so I can crawl up like an infant. There is a small child just leaving through the top of this tight squeeze. A voice behind me tells me that this is the children’s way out. I turn and see a woman look disapproving to my abandoned tea-cup. I squeeze out past the top step.

Upstairs looks more like a hotel restaurant than a coffee-house. I wander through, but never find the cashier. I end up in a school room where I am to encourage kids to write. Perhaps I have competed the lecture as we all get up and leave for the halls. I recognize the school as a dream variation on Westboro Elementary near Edmonton. It must be late in the school year, as the ground in green and clear of snow. A bearded man, the husband of one of my wife’s work friends, walks home with me. He talks only enough to keep the conversation moving. I prattle.

We arrive at my Bellingham home and I lead him to the basement. The phone rings. It is my father on the line. He tells me that on his last visit, he only took the first sheet of a two page story I wanted him to read. I flash on a visual of some pages fallen in back of the couch. I tell him that I will send him a copy, that I believe I know where to find it. I reach down and pull out three hand written pages and place them on the couch. My guest picks one up. It is covered with my sloppy handwriting. I find the page my father had needed, so return my attention to the conversation. The man has noticed that the heading claims that the page was writing in fifteen minutes. I confirm that it is likely. He shows me the page which has a grid of irregular columns and rows, marked out in pen.

“You tend to isolate your giants.”

I agree.

“Giants, witches and snakes – I don’t want to keep them out, but I want to know where they are.”

“Why snakes?”

“In mythology, many a hero has been brought down by a nip on the heel.”

I recognize that the conversation has centered on me, my thinking and what I do. Too late I realize that I should ask after his interests.


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