Dreams - Sunday night, January 28

This dream takes me and a whole bunch of people on a hiking and camping trip. As usual, there are people from all different times periods of my life represented on this hike - high school, teaching, graduate school. At one point, about four of us are hiking along a trail in a very scenic area - it is mid-summer. One of the people I'm hiking with is a man with whom I used to coach high school basketball. We spot a bear up toward the trail, which curves along a mountain ahead. He pulls out a rifle to shoot the bear despite my warning that there may be people on the trail that he could hit. He shoots anyway.
As we continue hiking, we get to a long metal bridge, where we see some men from Lewistown coming across. The coach had almost hit them with a gunshot. The bear at which he was shooting comes roaring up from the creek below the bridge, but it's not dangerous. It's the pet of one of the men from Lewistown, who literally gives it a bear-hug.
For the night, we arrive at a village high in the mountains, only there are a ton of people there. Our whole party is going to stay in a dirty, spidery house up a long flight of stairs. One of my good high school friends is with me now, and in the house I spot one of my former students and another one of my good high school friends, who has already taken a shower and is wearing a dress - like all of the other girls.
The men who are with us decide to cook. They use the old, white stove to cook some horrible cous-cous like concoction and are very proud of themselves.
Just as I'm about to dish up the cous-cous, Julie calls my cellphone to say that she has to stay behind with some of the hikers, including the coach with the shotgun, who has developed severe blisters. She said she found a lake where they can camp and that she will dress his wounds.
{Then, my alarm rings and I wake up.}

Billy Collins and dreams

Having just finished reading the first two chapters of Hillman, I had dreams "on the brain." So, when I read Billy Collins' poem "The Night House," it seemed relevant to our coursework. Here it is.

"The Night House"

Every day the body works in the field of the world
mending a stone wall
or swinging a sickle through the tall grass -
the grass of civics, the grass of money-
and every night the body curls around itself
and listens for the soft bells of sleep.

But the heart is restless and rises
from the body in the middle of the night,
leaves the trapezoidal bedroom
with its thick, pictureless walls
to sit by herself at the kitchen table
and heat some milk in a pan.

And the mind gets up too, puts on a robe
and goes downstairs, lights a cigarette,
and opens a book on engineering.
Even the conscience awakens
and roams from room to room in the dark,
darting away from every mirror like a strange fish.

And the soul is up on the roof
in her nightdress, straddling the ridge,
singing a song about the wildness of the sea
until the first rip of pink appears in the sky.
Then, they all will return to the sleeping body
the way a flock of birds settles back into a tree,

resuming their daily colloquy,
talking to each other or themselves
even through the heat of the long afternoons.
Which is why the body - that house of voices-
sometimes puts down its metal tongs, its needle, or its pen
to stare into the distance,

to listen to all its names being called
before bending again to its labor.

Dreams - Wednesday night, January 24

I was riding on a schoolbus of adults and teenagers going to a volleyball match. My friend, Gooner, was on the bus too, and I was trying to fill out a scholarship form for her son, Dustin, who is also my godson. I was having trouble because the schoolbus ride was not only rocky, but I was supposed to write in pencil. At one point, Gooner complimented me on my handwriting, but she was referring to something that had been written in blue pen. I said that it wasn’t my handwriting, that it was the secretary’s.
Two former students of mine were also on the bus, along with a whole bunch of teenage boys who I didn’t know. We had all just been to a funeral, and one of my students was reading the program that had been given at the funeral, only it was like a program for a volleyball tournament.
At one point, there was too much light coming from the lamp a couple rows up – the woman sitting there was the aunt of the girl that had died. She was a middle-aged farming wife from Stanford. She turned around nicely and asked if it was too much light. I said yes. But, then she turned the light almost all the way off. One of my ex- students made a smart comment while looking through the program, where there was picture of the woman’s niece in a volleyball uniform. She said something like, “If your niece has just died, how do you know not to turn your light all the way off?”
We were seated almost at the back of the bus with the teenage boys while all of this was going on; they were very interested in my two former students, and one of the couples started dancing in the aisle. They were nice guys, just pretty hyper and a little rowdy. The teenage boy who was dancing looked like a younger and thinner version of Lurch from the Adam’s Family. He was wearing a letterman’s jacket and seemed to be unaffected by the funeral we had just attended. When he returned to his seat by the window at the end of one of the back seats, he seemed literally very far away, like one of those pictures you see on perspective, and a little sad.

Childhood nightmares

(what I imagined the pilot light would eventually become)

I don't remember the pleasant dreams of my youth, but I do remember what most of my nightmares were. Most of them involved the pilot light for the furnace which was located in the hallway closet immediately outside of my bedroom door. Although it was just a pilot light, I imagined it would turn my house into the raging inferno you see above.

This tiny little pilot light affected my life in multiple ways outside of the dreams themselves. First, as a young child, I had formulated an escape plan for my entire family, including pets. Since my room was closest to the pilot light, the responsibility of evacuating the entire family, of course, fell to me...that was what I thought, at least.

Also, the fire fed a compulsion in me to check all burners on the stove nightly - a compulsion of which I am still not completely free.

I certainly ascribe to the belief that our lives affect our dreams. To what extent do our dreams affect our lives? Or, are our dreams and our lives indivisible?

A Realistic Displaced Fairy Tale and a not-so-realistic one

Fairy tale retell #1 – not as realistic, but entertaining

Possessing the rare combination of cheapness and poorness, Sam had been more concerned with money than with accoutrements when he had scraped together plane fare for he and his daughter to get to New York City. Although they weren’t in Las Vegas, where he had last hoped his luck would turn (and turn he meant – he bet what little money he had on the roulette wheel) , he still felt like a gambler. The man had no luck, and because he had not luck, he had no money. If things didn’t work here in New York, well, he didn’t have a back-up plan, other than to rely on the beauty of his only daughter, who had accompanied him on this trip.
As they deboarded the barely flight-worthy plane, the father (Sam) lamented the fact that although his daughter (Salmonella) was drop-dead gorgeous, she was also drop-dead dumb. Since they were advancing in age together, he hoped that when they arrived in NYC that Salmonella might find a man unlike him, a man who was both lucky and rich, or at least lucky, and then he could also win his riches back.
While the father ruminated about their collective futures, the daughter did not. She did not know what ruminate meant. As luck would have it, however, she unwittingly compensated for her lack of intelligence was by the kind of blithe and naïve oblivion characteristic of the beautiful but dim.
Father and daughter, acting in unison, turned toward the Jet Blue counter to reschedule their flight, but as they did, the father spotted a figure in the terminal; this man was by no means handsome, but he was undoubtedly rich, and he sported a reddish comb-over. He looked very much like, and in fact was, Donald Trump. “Well, this may be my next roulette wheel,” the father mused.
Unabashedly and with the confidence of one who doesn’t know he should have less, Sam approached the man, blurting out a creative embellishment, if not a complete lie, in an attempt to impress this powerful figure. “My daughter has a talent that you might find useful,” he said, gesturing to his daughter, who was holding her father’s place in the Jet Blue line. “She isn’t no brain doctor, but if you used her right, she could turn a quarter into a dollar bill.”
Always tuned into the money channel and no stranger to beautiful women, the Donald replied, “Well, you don’t say. I’m not going to pay her a cent, but if she has the Midas touch, send her to my office tomorrow.” And with a laugh and a casual glance over his shoulder, “ I have been known to take on an apprentice or two.”
The next morning, dressed only in the clothes she had worn (the airline had lost her luggage) Salmonella arrived via city bus at her new job, unaware of why her father had sent her there. She was taken to a cubicle that housed a computer and a telephone. Salmonella was to perform secretarial duties and place stock market orders.
Well, Salmonella was pissed. Pissed, pissed, pissed when she heard about her father’s tall tale. She muttered under her breath as she watched the lights on the phone and the indecipherable stock-market ticker hanging in the corner of the large office room, which for all intents and purposes, could have just as well have been written in Old English or Japanese or hieroglyphics. “If you’re going to tell a lie, dad, at least tell a half-way decent one,” she muttered, “…but, no, you go and tell this whopper about the me being good at business…stupid, stupid dad….crappy new job…I hate this…Oooh, look at my reflection in the computer screen - I sure am pretty.”
As the working day ended, Salmonella was almost positive that she would not be coming back the next day. A woman appeared in the doorway with a large garbage can, cleaning supplies, and a vacuum cleaner. Going about her work, the woman couldn’t help but notice Salmonella’s confusion. They made eye-contact, and Salmonella confided in the woman. The woman encouraged Salmonella not to give up, but Salmonella was sure that she was not meant to be a secretary, let alone, what was it that her dad had said, “that she could turn quarters into dollar bills?” What kind of a stupid promise was that? Hurriedly and somewhat impatiently, the woman quickly showed Salmonella some basic office skills, but, this would not be a something for nothing situation. “I’ll try to help you,” the woman said, “But, I’m supposed to be working, so it better be quick. I can’t risk my job for some stranger.”
Well, as you know, Jet Blue had lost Salmonella’s belongings, so Salmonella said, “I don’t have anything but a bus pass.”
The woman said that she couldn’t use a bus pass, but she sat down in front of the computer with Salmonella anyway. As far as Salmonella could tell, the lady was finding secret messages in the garbage. From time to time, the woman would dig through the trash and consult papers marked “confidential” or “shred.” The lady talked to herself all the while, at various times mentioning to herself something about bears, bulls and insider-trading, but of course, Salmonella had no idea what the woman was talking about. In fact, she found herself a little irritated with the obviousness of the woman’s comment. Of course, they were trading inside – you couldn’t really plug a computer in outside, and what if it rained? She hoped this lady was smarter than she seemed.
Whenever Salmonella needed help in the ensuing days, she waited until the end of the day when the lady would return with her cleaning cart – it was like she was on a schedule or something. Each time the woman would appear, she would remind Salmonella that she shouldn’t be helping her. Then, she would sit down at Salmonella’s computer, sift through her large trash container, and work. And equally as predictable, Salmonella had really nothing of value to offer this kind, but odd, frank, and somewhat shifty-eyed helper. The as-of-yet nameless woman countered, “We’ll just keep this between the two of us, okay sweetie?” What Salmonella agreed to keep between them, she wasn’t quite sure. But, she made a mental note and filed it in her one of the many empty spaces in her brain under F, for “Fishy.” Nonetheless, Salmonella was in no position to disagree, and she tacitly agreed to the terms.
In nine months, Salmonella was still at her entry-level position. Although she had mastered the basics expected of her, and had long since quit needing the assistance of her garbage-can helper, she was still in imminent danger of losing her job. The Donald hadn’t fired her yet, but he had lots of employees and couldn’t be watching them every minute, or really, at any minute. Soon, Salmonella felt, the axe would fall.
The one thing she did care about was a new filing system she had devised for herself. It was, so to speak, her “brain-child” - odd, for a woman with more beauty than brains. Noting the irony herself, Salmonella shortened her project’s nickname to “child.” Sometimes, she even endearingly called in “her baby.” And because this was something that was a product of her own mind, Salmonella guarded it with the fierceness of a mother.
It was at about this time that her benefactor of nine months previous appeared at her cubicle. Salmonella wasn’t really shocked, because she had seen this lady almost every working day for the last nine months. And, since they had pretty darn secure security at her job, she figured the woman was a legitimate employee. Her secret helper, again requested to use Salmonella’s computer. In nine months, Salmonella had become markedly less daft, and had received repeated instructions from her superiors to not let anyone use her computer. The only thing Salmonella had to bargain with was her fabulous filing system. By now, however, Salmonella was connected with her “brain-child” in more than a monetary way. This was a project that was her own, that she had birthed, fed, nurtured. She could not part with her “child.” Feeling the dread rise in her, she knew that the garbage lady would want something if she couldn’t use the computer; she hoped this lady didn’t want her filing system.
Salmonella hemmed and hawed, and finally got the woman to agree to give her a little while to ruminate (she had learned a lot, including some new words in her time in the city). “You know, I don’t know this lady’s name,” Salmonella mused, and almost as an afterthought. “I’d like to talk to her outside the office.”
“No sweat,” she whispered, “I’ll find her on the internet, or I’ll meet her in the hallway, or…” Her usually quiet mind was babbling with ways to figure out this lady’s name. Remembering the very secure security, Salmonella deduced that her “friend” was undoubtedly listed in the employee registry. Without much work, she found her, they had a cup of coffee, and instead of having to turn over her “child,” Salmonella agreed to resume their old arrangement.
Unfortunately for both of them, insider trading is against the law, and really, how long do you think you can insider trade without getting caught? Salmonella, never really the wiser, suffered the same fate as the woman, who Salmonella learned was one of the night janitors. They both did soft time at a minimum-security prison, where they met a fellow inmate and inside-trader named Martha, who taught them how to turn their old credit cards into tiling for their bathroom floors, roast lamb chops with basil, and prepare beautiful flower arrangements from lilies grown in their own gardens.

Fairy tale retell #2 – same tale but more realistic and less entertaining

As men went, he was an odd one. It wasn’t just his unusually small stature that made him odd; it was his his demeanor and his misanthropic nature that made people dislike him or avoid him altogether. He was antagonist at sight; his presence almost intolerable.
He didn’t really care, of course, that he was uncommonly disliked, because he disliked them first, he would tell himself. Over time he had developed a hard shell that protected him from others while simultaneously repelling them.
He was a librarian, not one of those helpful or pleasant librarians, but one who buried himself deep in the stacks, away from the public, immersed in the words around him. He enjoyed the seclusion and reveled in what he believed to be his self-imposed exclusion. In his supreme isolation, he had cultivated a passion for the languages of the books he restacked.
Far in the stacks one day, the librarian overheard a proud man telling his boss about his beautiful daughter’s uncanny ability to translate Japanese into English. He whispered to his disbelieving friend, “My daughter really has a way with languages. Her speciality is Japanese - I bet she translates better than most Ivy League scholars. " Unfortunately, the man called his bluff.
“Well, Henry, that's great. We’re thinking of doing business with a Japanese company, and I need some documents translated, but haven’t been able to find someone who can do the work expeditiously and cheaply.” Then, remembering he was in a library, quietly said, “Have your daughter come by tomorrow. I’ll put her to work.”
Caught in his lie, Henry sent his daughter to the library the next day to meet his supervisor. He had simply told her that she was to go there about a job. When she arrived, she was met with the magnitude of her father’s lie and a stack of Japanese business documents that she could not translate.
Out of love for her father and because of financial instability, the girl didn’t dare to reveal her predicament to anyone. She sat for hours and tried to translate a little with the help of some books and the internet. Still, she wasn’t getting much done, and she wasn’t sure if what she was doing was correct.
Out of love for words, certainly not for people, the misanthropic librarian eventually wrested the documents from her panicked hands, and without introducing himself, translated them. “I’m not doing this for free,” he blurted. Because she was beautiful, the girl was certain that the payment would be in the form of a sexual favor. But, the librarian did not want that, he wanted cash. Relieved, the girl paid him what she could.
Because of his efficiency, however, the girl continued to get increasing loads of translation work in the following days. Each day, the librarian would translate for her and demand monetary payment, which the girl would provide by cashing the check she had just received. The librarian, in love with the words but disgusted with the girl, would softly whisper, “You owe me.”
A couple of months later, the girl was surprised to pass the odious librarian on the street. She had avoided the library like an anathema after the translations had been completed, and with the passage of time, she had almost forgotten of her nebulous debt. As they passed, he said, “You still owe me.”
“Owe you what?” She replied quite genuinely. He knew that she wasn't rich, and she knew that he wasn't interested in sexual recompense. The only thing she really valued was her family.
“Your dad could easily lose his job.”
“You could just as easily lose yours,” she replied, surprised at the strength and anger his words had provoked in her.
“You don’t even know my name, let alone have any proof of any wrongdoing.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said. “Just try me.”
Shaking from the emotion of the unexpected encounter, the girl immediately regretted putting her father’s job in jeopardy. But, she couldn’t do much, only hope that the little troll didn’t rat out her dad. She consoled herself with the fact that he had accepted money from her, which was probably morally ambiguous for the librarian. She wished she had just come clean to everyone; she felt guilty about having someone else do work that she couldn’t verify; she felt dirty about being beholden to this creepy little man.
If she met him again, she would continue to bluff - there was no easy way, really no way, to extricate herself from this situation. Sullying his name would come with very high consequences for her and for her family, and she couldn't risk that.