(Entered in paper journal at 7:15 AM on B-train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.)
Dream #1
I stood in a hallway, looking in to a room through a wide window, as if I were looking into a nursery in a hospital. The room, though, was like a room in a log cabin. There were a few people in the room, spread out in couples or singly. The people were supposed to be people from my work. Closest to me was my old boss DO, who was speaking about me, possibly mumbling to himself, sitting on a reclining chair, with a blanket over his legs.
On the opposite end of the room an older looking couple sat in a booth like in a 1950s style diner. They held hands across the table. The man was fat, with shaggy, red hair and a beard and big, thick glasses. The woman (the man's wife?) looked like she was out of a cartoon. She wore a frumpy, purple dress and a round hat like an old maid in a forest house might wear. She had thin, round glasses and grey hair and a roundish face and body.
For some reason I thought this couple was speaking nostalgically about their life together, as if they knew they were going to die very soon.
Dream #2
I was in the lobby of an enormous luxury hotel. The interior was of peach and pink marble, and it was lit dimly with golden light. I was all by myself.
I thought of or recalled my cousin AH. She had been living or staying in this hotel. She might have been gone now. I had been staying at this hotel, too. But then I'd left. Now I'd come back, possibly because of travel difficulties.
I heard my aunt M telling me I could stay in AH's room. But I realized that my own old room was open, not to mention some "very nice" rooms which used to be occupied by rich people.
I walked through a number of hallways, some of which were very cheap-looking and lit fluorescent. Finally I came to a room, probably the room my aunt M told me I could stay in. The room was small and cluttered. I was disappointed with it.
Dream #3
It was night and raining heavily. I was outside an airport. I might have been late catching my flight. I was going to Chicago. I went into the airport.
I stood before a ticket counter or information counter. The attendant, a black woman, told me that my flight still hadn't been left yet. It might actually have been canceled due to the awful weather. But another flight was leaving at 11:03. But there was a chance that this flight would also not be able to leave. I could "see" or "feel" that the jet for this flight was an enormous jumbo jet.
Showing posts with label 1950s style. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1950s style. Show all posts
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
(12/20/08) she died in her imagination
(Entered in paper journal at 10 AM at home in Brooklyn.)
Dream #1
I was in a (dark?) room with a woman or possibly the ghost of a woman. The woman appeared to be young and blonde, very pretty. But she was actually an old woman, or a woman who had died long ago. I stood as if between two rooms: one, in which this woman lay on a bed, and the other, a dark living room where some other woman (?), like the woman's attendant (?), sat in deep shadow.
The woman told me a story of how she'd known she was going to die. She'd had a disease like cancer and was in the final stages. I heard her story and "understood," at first, that she'd been asked to take a role in a film adaptation of a John D. MacDonald movie. I "understood" that the woman was at death's door and could hardly move when her final scene was shot.
I imagined the scene: a 1950s black and white movie. The woman, with long, dark hair, probably red, lying under a big, fur blanket, saying some final words. At some point the woman may have pulled down the blanket to expose her breasts. I "understood" that the final scene, which may have been a death scene, anyway, had been re-written so that the almost-invalid woman could act it out in her condition.
But then, as if time replayed itself, I "heard" the woman's actual "telling" of the story. The woman had always admired John D. MacDonald's novels and had wanted to act in an adaptation of one. But she had never gotten the chance. So, on her death-bed, she imagined herself acting out her favorite novel. This imagination was so powerful to her that it was almost like a reality to her. In fact, at the time of her death, she died "in her imagination," passing away as the character of the novel, in the final scene of the novel, rather than as herself in her bed.
When I heard this story I laughed. It was so heartwarming, and so quirky, somehow -- a Hollywood starlet passing away in a pulp novel fantasy. But then I began to cry. I thought of how much this work meant to her, and how tragic it was that this starlet never got to express herself fully.
As I cried, the room lit slightly. The light came from a small pool of water. The pool was where the woman's sickbed had been. The woman sat or stood or floated in the pool. She wore an elegant, green and white striped swimsuit. She was simultaneously modern and older styled. She had the poise and beauty of both Grace Kelly and a modern surfer girl.
The woman told me her name -- something like Jean Harlow or Jean Jordan. She told me I could find other movies she'd acted in by looking in an old (box or shelf?) of books she'd kept nearby. She may have embraced me.
I now stood in front of a bookshelf, looking through a stack of books. I knew I should get the titles of these books and then watch the movies with the titles. All the novels were extreme pulp novels: sci-fi, crime, even pornography. I assumed the film adaptations of these novels were all little-heard-of B-movies.
I had a handful of books but can remember only one cover clearly. A painting wherein a woman possibly in a yellow outfit, or maybe a yellow trench coat, was running across a deep green, shadowy background. The woman was looking over her right shoulder, as if panicked that something would attack her. The (very long) title ran across the bottom of the page -- something like: I Can't Use My ESP to Call the Martians Who Are Getting (Rescuing?) Me.
There were other crime books with covers painted in deep, ashy blues and grey-blacks. One may have used the derogatory term for black people in its title.
There may have been another person, probably a man, fumbling around in the books as well, trying to get a hold of all the books I was looking at.
Dream #1
I was in a (dark?) room with a woman or possibly the ghost of a woman. The woman appeared to be young and blonde, very pretty. But she was actually an old woman, or a woman who had died long ago. I stood as if between two rooms: one, in which this woman lay on a bed, and the other, a dark living room where some other woman (?), like the woman's attendant (?), sat in deep shadow.
The woman told me a story of how she'd known she was going to die. She'd had a disease like cancer and was in the final stages. I heard her story and "understood," at first, that she'd been asked to take a role in a film adaptation of a John D. MacDonald movie. I "understood" that the woman was at death's door and could hardly move when her final scene was shot.
I imagined the scene: a 1950s black and white movie. The woman, with long, dark hair, probably red, lying under a big, fur blanket, saying some final words. At some point the woman may have pulled down the blanket to expose her breasts. I "understood" that the final scene, which may have been a death scene, anyway, had been re-written so that the almost-invalid woman could act it out in her condition.
But then, as if time replayed itself, I "heard" the woman's actual "telling" of the story. The woman had always admired John D. MacDonald's novels and had wanted to act in an adaptation of one. But she had never gotten the chance. So, on her death-bed, she imagined herself acting out her favorite novel. This imagination was so powerful to her that it was almost like a reality to her. In fact, at the time of her death, she died "in her imagination," passing away as the character of the novel, in the final scene of the novel, rather than as herself in her bed.
When I heard this story I laughed. It was so heartwarming, and so quirky, somehow -- a Hollywood starlet passing away in a pulp novel fantasy. But then I began to cry. I thought of how much this work meant to her, and how tragic it was that this starlet never got to express herself fully.
As I cried, the room lit slightly. The light came from a small pool of water. The pool was where the woman's sickbed had been. The woman sat or stood or floated in the pool. She wore an elegant, green and white striped swimsuit. She was simultaneously modern and older styled. She had the poise and beauty of both Grace Kelly and a modern surfer girl.
The woman told me her name -- something like Jean Harlow or Jean Jordan. She told me I could find other movies she'd acted in by looking in an old (box or shelf?) of books she'd kept nearby. She may have embraced me.
I now stood in front of a bookshelf, looking through a stack of books. I knew I should get the titles of these books and then watch the movies with the titles. All the novels were extreme pulp novels: sci-fi, crime, even pornography. I assumed the film adaptations of these novels were all little-heard-of B-movies.
I had a handful of books but can remember only one cover clearly. A painting wherein a woman possibly in a yellow outfit, or maybe a yellow trench coat, was running across a deep green, shadowy background. The woman was looking over her right shoulder, as if panicked that something would attack her. The (very long) title ran across the bottom of the page -- something like: I Can't Use My ESP to Call the Martians Who Are Getting (Rescuing?) Me.
There were other crime books with covers painted in deep, ashy blues and grey-blacks. One may have used the derogatory term for black people in its title.
There may have been another person, probably a man, fumbling around in the books as well, trying to get a hold of all the books I was looking at.
(12/24/08) the fool of the second half
(Entered in paper journal at 9:15 AM at Starbucks in Westminster, Colorado.)
Dream #1
I may have been in some play where I was playing the part of a fool. The play may have gone into intermission. I walked outside. I stood on a small bridge that was over a deepish slope. At the bottom of the slope (to my right) was something like a plaza with a river. The light was like winter, but the air may have felt warm. The trees may have been barren.
I saw a futuristic craft flying toward me from over the plaza/river. The craft was white -- it looked like a mix between an ambulance and the Back to the Future DeLorean. It flew on some kind of hovering power, and its exhaust was more like clear convection rather than any smoke.
I hoped I could get a clear view of it. But somehow it knocked me off my feet, as if it had managed to wedge under me. I felt rejected, like I had felt a kinship with the vehicle and was now treated poorly by it.
I looked over the bridge. A car that looked like a police vehicle and a hummer, but with a strange, futuristic shape and strange, "swiveling" wheels, pulled up on the plaza.
I was something like an undercover cop. I knew the group of people in this vehicle were big criminals planning some large crime. They hadn't been expected to show up here. They were a dangerous group of people in any encounter, and they had come to think of themselves as invincible. But now that they showed up here, thinking nobody would be looking for them, in fact not having been expected here at all, I knew I could probably catch them by surprise.
The white flying vehicle now came back to me. I couldn't get inside, but I jumped on top of it. The craft took a dive straight down. I wondered if I would just crash or experience a harsh landing. But the craft would, I knew, engage its hovering mechanism as we approached ground, so it would be just like we were landing on a cushion of air.
As we approached ground, I may have gotten a better view of the four-wheeled vehicle, possibly as it opened itself up (like a children's toy). Somewhere on the vehicle was the title "MR. SHAMAN," the name of the covert group.
I stayed seated on the flying vehicle. A small group of men were seated in the various opened compartments of the Mr. Shaman vehicle. The innards of the vehicle may have been shining chrome and dark black, with blue and purple glints. The men wore sunglasses and had the look of cheesy 1980s future-action movie badguys. The men laughed at me like I was an idiot. They didn't know who I was. They thought I was just some passerby.
I said, "Now's the moment!" I made some call to my vehicle. Small areas on the sides of the vehicle opened up to reveal guns. The guns fired rapidly, though they made very little sound. I couldn't tell whether I had killed the group.
I was now walking back into the theater. The play was slowly beginning again. There were very few people in the audience -- the theater was maybe only a tenth full. The stage was enormous. The scene was of something like a barber shop.
I walked to the stage and sat on the steps up to the stage at the right (the audience's right). I was dressed in the costume of a fool.
I watched the play. I couldn't remember my lines for the second half of the play. I thought that was fine, in some sense. I figured I had (hopefully) practiced my lines so much that they had just become natural, spontaneous, for me. I thought that when the moment came, I would just know I was supposed to step on stage. But I also thought it would be embarrassing if the moment finally came where I was supposed to come on stage, and I still sat where I was, not remembering my entering line. Or worse, I thought, I could remember to step on stage but I wouldn't remember my lines.
I imagined myself on a strange stage of green, screen-like planes that were "supposed to" signify forest (?). I saw a group of nuns around me, coaching me on my lines. I might have been embarrassed because the actresses were all pretty girls and I was forgetting everything like a doofus, not the star I wished to be.
The current stage was supposed to represent a barber shop. The stage was still staggered in screen-like planes against which were projected grey and white patterns that may have resembled television static or newspaper print.
A man sat in a barber's chair. All around him were a group of people, probably dressed in mid-twentieth-century business clothes. The man himself was dressed in something like a tan robe, like a stagey version of a monk's robe.
I was waiting to hear the line that would bring my character on stage. But now a character stepped on stage who, I thought, was playing the fool instead of me. The character was somewhat sexless, but more female than male. The character may have been old, with hair that was scraggly and white, but dirtyish, as if the old color were still fading, aging, out of it. The person wore a grey and black, tweed (?) trench coat pulled over almost "her" whole body. The person may also have been holding a whole armful of newspaper, all in disarray, as well as some plastic bags.
I thought, Perhaps I'm not supposed to be in the second half of the play. Maybe that's why I can't "remember" the lines I'm supposed to speak. This person is the fool of the second half.
Now a group of actresses dressed as sexy nurses all crowded onto the stairs I sat on. The nurses' outfits were like novelty outfits -- all short-skirted, some white, some pink. The outfits may even have been made of latex, like fetish clothing.
The nurses were all speaking lines about tending to some man whom everybody loved. The nurses all nudged me out of the cluster they were in, as if to tell me I needed to get out of the scene altogether. I was only in the way in the part they were now acting out.
I thought, Well, maybe I should just sit in the audience until I hear a line that's familiar to me. I looked back into the audience as I sat down, to see if I could spot any other actors who were doing the same thing as I.
Maybe a row or two behind me sat about four or five women. They were all costumed (?) as women from the late Medieval or early Renaissance times. They all had the look of women in Flemish paintings: very pale and oval-faced. The women's dresses were rich, crimson velvet (?) with white bodices. Their hair, blondish-brown (?), was done so the sides of their heads were capped in little, white fabric bundles.
These women looked like actresses to me. I tried to figure if I was supposed to fit into the same part of the play that they were supposed to fit into. But I couldn't think of any context where they would speak lines that would bring a character like mine on stage.
Dream #1
I may have been in some play where I was playing the part of a fool. The play may have gone into intermission. I walked outside. I stood on a small bridge that was over a deepish slope. At the bottom of the slope (to my right) was something like a plaza with a river. The light was like winter, but the air may have felt warm. The trees may have been barren.
I saw a futuristic craft flying toward me from over the plaza/river. The craft was white -- it looked like a mix between an ambulance and the Back to the Future DeLorean. It flew on some kind of hovering power, and its exhaust was more like clear convection rather than any smoke.
I hoped I could get a clear view of it. But somehow it knocked me off my feet, as if it had managed to wedge under me. I felt rejected, like I had felt a kinship with the vehicle and was now treated poorly by it.
I looked over the bridge. A car that looked like a police vehicle and a hummer, but with a strange, futuristic shape and strange, "swiveling" wheels, pulled up on the plaza.
I was something like an undercover cop. I knew the group of people in this vehicle were big criminals planning some large crime. They hadn't been expected to show up here. They were a dangerous group of people in any encounter, and they had come to think of themselves as invincible. But now that they showed up here, thinking nobody would be looking for them, in fact not having been expected here at all, I knew I could probably catch them by surprise.
The white flying vehicle now came back to me. I couldn't get inside, but I jumped on top of it. The craft took a dive straight down. I wondered if I would just crash or experience a harsh landing. But the craft would, I knew, engage its hovering mechanism as we approached ground, so it would be just like we were landing on a cushion of air.
As we approached ground, I may have gotten a better view of the four-wheeled vehicle, possibly as it opened itself up (like a children's toy). Somewhere on the vehicle was the title "MR. SHAMAN," the name of the covert group.
I stayed seated on the flying vehicle. A small group of men were seated in the various opened compartments of the Mr. Shaman vehicle. The innards of the vehicle may have been shining chrome and dark black, with blue and purple glints. The men wore sunglasses and had the look of cheesy 1980s future-action movie badguys. The men laughed at me like I was an idiot. They didn't know who I was. They thought I was just some passerby.
I said, "Now's the moment!" I made some call to my vehicle. Small areas on the sides of the vehicle opened up to reveal guns. The guns fired rapidly, though they made very little sound. I couldn't tell whether I had killed the group.
I was now walking back into the theater. The play was slowly beginning again. There were very few people in the audience -- the theater was maybe only a tenth full. The stage was enormous. The scene was of something like a barber shop.
I walked to the stage and sat on the steps up to the stage at the right (the audience's right). I was dressed in the costume of a fool.
I watched the play. I couldn't remember my lines for the second half of the play. I thought that was fine, in some sense. I figured I had (hopefully) practiced my lines so much that they had just become natural, spontaneous, for me. I thought that when the moment came, I would just know I was supposed to step on stage. But I also thought it would be embarrassing if the moment finally came where I was supposed to come on stage, and I still sat where I was, not remembering my entering line. Or worse, I thought, I could remember to step on stage but I wouldn't remember my lines.
I imagined myself on a strange stage of green, screen-like planes that were "supposed to" signify forest (?). I saw a group of nuns around me, coaching me on my lines. I might have been embarrassed because the actresses were all pretty girls and I was forgetting everything like a doofus, not the star I wished to be.
The current stage was supposed to represent a barber shop. The stage was still staggered in screen-like planes against which were projected grey and white patterns that may have resembled television static or newspaper print.
A man sat in a barber's chair. All around him were a group of people, probably dressed in mid-twentieth-century business clothes. The man himself was dressed in something like a tan robe, like a stagey version of a monk's robe.
I was waiting to hear the line that would bring my character on stage. But now a character stepped on stage who, I thought, was playing the fool instead of me. The character was somewhat sexless, but more female than male. The character may have been old, with hair that was scraggly and white, but dirtyish, as if the old color were still fading, aging, out of it. The person wore a grey and black, tweed (?) trench coat pulled over almost "her" whole body. The person may also have been holding a whole armful of newspaper, all in disarray, as well as some plastic bags.
I thought, Perhaps I'm not supposed to be in the second half of the play. Maybe that's why I can't "remember" the lines I'm supposed to speak. This person is the fool of the second half.
Now a group of actresses dressed as sexy nurses all crowded onto the stairs I sat on. The nurses' outfits were like novelty outfits -- all short-skirted, some white, some pink. The outfits may even have been made of latex, like fetish clothing.
The nurses were all speaking lines about tending to some man whom everybody loved. The nurses all nudged me out of the cluster they were in, as if to tell me I needed to get out of the scene altogether. I was only in the way in the part they were now acting out.
I thought, Well, maybe I should just sit in the audience until I hear a line that's familiar to me. I looked back into the audience as I sat down, to see if I could spot any other actors who were doing the same thing as I.
Maybe a row or two behind me sat about four or five women. They were all costumed (?) as women from the late Medieval or early Renaissance times. They all had the look of women in Flemish paintings: very pale and oval-faced. The women's dresses were rich, crimson velvet (?) with white bodices. Their hair, blondish-brown (?), was done so the sides of their heads were capped in little, white fabric bundles.
These women looked like actresses to me. I tried to figure if I was supposed to fit into the same part of the play that they were supposed to fit into. But I couldn't think of any context where they would speak lines that would bring a character like mine on stage.
Monday, November 19, 2012
(5/21/09) not checking in books; wrong man bombed
(Entered in paper journal at 7:34 AM at Red Horse cafe in Brooklyn.)
Dream #1
I was sitting in a library, like the Mid-Manhattan Library on the fifth floor and east side. Some daylight came into the space from windows beyond the books stacks to my right, but the place was mainly lit by fluorescent light.
I stood up and walked into the stacks. I had a pile of books with me. I started to put them all back where I had gotten them, all from different locations in one aisle of shelves. There was a lot more sunlight through the shelves, with probably a triangle of sunlight at the end of the shelves next to the windows.
As I put the books back, a couple people walked through the aisle. One of them, a young, Hispanic girl with pale olive skin and red-brown hair, was putting books back on the shelf, as if she worked at the library.
I was watching the people who walked through the aisles out of the corner of my eye. I wanted to make sure they didn't see and take the books I was putting back on the shelves: I still needed those books. Nobody seemed to be paying attention.
I was almost finished putting the books back when a man (tallish, white, a little tan, with short, brownish hair, who was maybe in his fifties and was thin but with body a little sagging and wrinkled, and who wore a white polo shirt and tan khakis) walked just behind me.
The man said in a slightly effeminate voice either that I shouldn't put the books back myself or that I should be paying better attention to where I was putting the books. The girl, the man said, was really working hard to put back a lot of books. The girl couldn't take the time to fix any mistakes I'd make. I felt guilty for having put my books back so quickly, although I was pretty sure I'd put them all back correctly.
I went to check on one book. I still had a couple books to put away, and I'd sat them on an empty space of shelf. I looked at the book I'd come to check on. The book was hard covered, with a solid grey cover, and maybe 250 pages. I noticed, by checking the Dewey decimal number, that I'd put the book just out of place. I thought, Gosh, now I really will have to check all the books.
I was about to start checking when I realized I'd made a much bigger mistake. I had actually checked out all the books away. Instead of checking them back in, I had simply placed them back on the shelves. Now I would have to pull all the books back off the shelves. I'd have to remember every single book I'd taken, more by decimal number or actual position on the shelf than by title, as if I couldn't remember the title of any of the books I'd checked out.
It seemed like too much work to me. I thought for a moment that I'd just leave all the books on the shelf. But I realized that if I left everything, I'd be counted as having kept the books, even though they were in the library. And I'd be charged a lot of overdue fees. So, as difficult as it would be, I'd have to take the books back off the shelves.
I was now on the first floor of the library. It was dim. Daylight came in through the windows: sky-blue and white-grey. There were no electric lights on on the floor. The area was large, with tall ceilings, like the Mid-Manhattan library. But the library felt more like a college library in the southwestern United States, with white walls dark wood trim, and possibly a large god's eye ornament decorating one of the walls.
I sat before a female librarian. She sat on the other side of a table which she used as a desk. Behind the librarian, across a short walkway, was a row of filing cabinets or microfiche machines (or computers?).
I was looking for a book to check out (possibly The Gilded Age, which I had bought from the Housing Works Bookstore in waking life in the day before this dream.). I may have seen this book on the shelf upstairs. I may even have been holding the book in my hands. But the woman told me that there wasn't a copy of this book at the library. She'd have to request the book from another library.
I asked the woman how long it would take to get the book. The woman said she could put in a request, which would take a couple days. But Monday was a holiday. So I wouldn't get the book until Tuesday at the earliest.
This seemed like an awfully long time to wait, and I wasn't even sure I'd get it, even if I went through the hassle of ordering it. I felt terribly insecure, like the woman really didn't want to help me after all.
Dream #2
I was in a 1950s-style diner. The place was tight and crowded, like some of the old downtown diners. The diner had a small and strange feel, like it was a double-wide trailer set off a road somewhere, or a small, flimsy field office for an archaeologist, or even a child's playhouse set up to look like a diner. The ceiling seemed small. The walls were all close, maybe paneled with wood in vertical strips. By the door was a small, bedstead-like shelf, possibly with a couple phone books on the shelves.
The scene was like a movie. A group of older men sat in a booth. A younger man (possibly like Ewan McGregor from Trainspotting) stood before the counter. He was possibly heading for the door. But before the Ewan character opened the front door, the old men, like mafia men, said, "This is it. You've owed us this money long enough. We've given you chances to pay us. Now you better just watch your back. You better be careful."
The Ewan character took a little of a supplicant tone, possibly even hunching over one of the swivel stools before the counter, and said he would pay the money, if the old men would only give him a little more time. Ewan left the diner.
I saw the area outside. The day was hot and grey. There was a wide road over which I highway overpass ran. On the other side of the street that ran under the overpass was a thin, triangular median, which was probably made of asphalt. On the other side of the median was another, smaller road, on the other side of which were some small shops like mechanics or auto shops, then a wide residential road lined with run-down looking houses and apartment buildings.
The Ewan character ran across the street. I watched him until he approached the median, at which point my view may have changed. I knew the Ewan character was now really trying to figure out how to get the money he owed the mob guys. I thought it was possibly for the Ewan character to get the money. But, I thought, the guys already told him they were out for him. They aren't giving him any more time. He's in danger right now.
I saw a young, blonde woman, probably the Ewan character's girlfriend, walking with an old man. The old man wore a long-sleeved t-shirt and a thin, billed cap: both items he may have gotten from participating in a volunteer event or running in a race. The blonde woman and old man came out of a wooden, shack-like building that seemed to be set into an old, small junkyard or tire yard. I thought that the Ewan character would run up at any time soon to enlist his girlfriend for help.
At first, not seeing Ewan, I thought that I wasn't seeing right, and that the person I saw as an old man was actually Ewan. But then I noticed that the old man was small, thin, and wasted, with either injured legs or no legs at all, and that he was using forearm crutches to walk. There was no way this old man could be Ewan.
The woman and the man crossed a wide asphalt road, then turned left around a wide corner of vacant lots and houses to a wide, run-down residential road. The old man walked ahead of the woman. The woman fell far behind the man.
Another man ran, somewhat stealthily, up behind the old man, also possibly thinking, like I had thought, that the old man was the Ewan character. The other man threw a tube, like a metal tube of paint, in the man's direction. I knew this tube was really a bomb. I wanted to call to the man, to protect him. But I didn't.
The paint tube, possibly with dried paint (or caulk?) layered on its surface near the cap, flew over the old man's head and landed maybe ten or fifteen feet in front of the old man. The tube "exploded." It made a loudish, hollow, popping sound, but did nothing visual. But there were airy shock waves that knocked the man over.
I could tell, as the old man flew backward and to the ground, that more damage had been done to him. He'd probably sustained some pretty severe injuries in his limbs. I thought, Now that this has happened to the old man, will the Ewan character fight the mob guys?
Dream #1
I was sitting in a library, like the Mid-Manhattan Library on the fifth floor and east side. Some daylight came into the space from windows beyond the books stacks to my right, but the place was mainly lit by fluorescent light.
I stood up and walked into the stacks. I had a pile of books with me. I started to put them all back where I had gotten them, all from different locations in one aisle of shelves. There was a lot more sunlight through the shelves, with probably a triangle of sunlight at the end of the shelves next to the windows.
As I put the books back, a couple people walked through the aisle. One of them, a young, Hispanic girl with pale olive skin and red-brown hair, was putting books back on the shelf, as if she worked at the library.
I was watching the people who walked through the aisles out of the corner of my eye. I wanted to make sure they didn't see and take the books I was putting back on the shelves: I still needed those books. Nobody seemed to be paying attention.
I was almost finished putting the books back when a man (tallish, white, a little tan, with short, brownish hair, who was maybe in his fifties and was thin but with body a little sagging and wrinkled, and who wore a white polo shirt and tan khakis) walked just behind me.
The man said in a slightly effeminate voice either that I shouldn't put the books back myself or that I should be paying better attention to where I was putting the books. The girl, the man said, was really working hard to put back a lot of books. The girl couldn't take the time to fix any mistakes I'd make. I felt guilty for having put my books back so quickly, although I was pretty sure I'd put them all back correctly.
I went to check on one book. I still had a couple books to put away, and I'd sat them on an empty space of shelf. I looked at the book I'd come to check on. The book was hard covered, with a solid grey cover, and maybe 250 pages. I noticed, by checking the Dewey decimal number, that I'd put the book just out of place. I thought, Gosh, now I really will have to check all the books.
I was about to start checking when I realized I'd made a much bigger mistake. I had actually checked out all the books away. Instead of checking them back in, I had simply placed them back on the shelves. Now I would have to pull all the books back off the shelves. I'd have to remember every single book I'd taken, more by decimal number or actual position on the shelf than by title, as if I couldn't remember the title of any of the books I'd checked out.
It seemed like too much work to me. I thought for a moment that I'd just leave all the books on the shelf. But I realized that if I left everything, I'd be counted as having kept the books, even though they were in the library. And I'd be charged a lot of overdue fees. So, as difficult as it would be, I'd have to take the books back off the shelves.
I was now on the first floor of the library. It was dim. Daylight came in through the windows: sky-blue and white-grey. There were no electric lights on on the floor. The area was large, with tall ceilings, like the Mid-Manhattan library. But the library felt more like a college library in the southwestern United States, with white walls dark wood trim, and possibly a large god's eye ornament decorating one of the walls.
I sat before a female librarian. She sat on the other side of a table which she used as a desk. Behind the librarian, across a short walkway, was a row of filing cabinets or microfiche machines (or computers?).
I was looking for a book to check out (possibly The Gilded Age, which I had bought from the Housing Works Bookstore in waking life in the day before this dream.). I may have seen this book on the shelf upstairs. I may even have been holding the book in my hands. But the woman told me that there wasn't a copy of this book at the library. She'd have to request the book from another library.
I asked the woman how long it would take to get the book. The woman said she could put in a request, which would take a couple days. But Monday was a holiday. So I wouldn't get the book until Tuesday at the earliest.
This seemed like an awfully long time to wait, and I wasn't even sure I'd get it, even if I went through the hassle of ordering it. I felt terribly insecure, like the woman really didn't want to help me after all.
Dream #2
I was in a 1950s-style diner. The place was tight and crowded, like some of the old downtown diners. The diner had a small and strange feel, like it was a double-wide trailer set off a road somewhere, or a small, flimsy field office for an archaeologist, or even a child's playhouse set up to look like a diner. The ceiling seemed small. The walls were all close, maybe paneled with wood in vertical strips. By the door was a small, bedstead-like shelf, possibly with a couple phone books on the shelves.
The scene was like a movie. A group of older men sat in a booth. A younger man (possibly like Ewan McGregor from Trainspotting) stood before the counter. He was possibly heading for the door. But before the Ewan character opened the front door, the old men, like mafia men, said, "This is it. You've owed us this money long enough. We've given you chances to pay us. Now you better just watch your back. You better be careful."
The Ewan character took a little of a supplicant tone, possibly even hunching over one of the swivel stools before the counter, and said he would pay the money, if the old men would only give him a little more time. Ewan left the diner.
I saw the area outside. The day was hot and grey. There was a wide road over which I highway overpass ran. On the other side of the street that ran under the overpass was a thin, triangular median, which was probably made of asphalt. On the other side of the median was another, smaller road, on the other side of which were some small shops like mechanics or auto shops, then a wide residential road lined with run-down looking houses and apartment buildings.
The Ewan character ran across the street. I watched him until he approached the median, at which point my view may have changed. I knew the Ewan character was now really trying to figure out how to get the money he owed the mob guys. I thought it was possibly for the Ewan character to get the money. But, I thought, the guys already told him they were out for him. They aren't giving him any more time. He's in danger right now.
I saw a young, blonde woman, probably the Ewan character's girlfriend, walking with an old man. The old man wore a long-sleeved t-shirt and a thin, billed cap: both items he may have gotten from participating in a volunteer event or running in a race. The blonde woman and old man came out of a wooden, shack-like building that seemed to be set into an old, small junkyard or tire yard. I thought that the Ewan character would run up at any time soon to enlist his girlfriend for help.
At first, not seeing Ewan, I thought that I wasn't seeing right, and that the person I saw as an old man was actually Ewan. But then I noticed that the old man was small, thin, and wasted, with either injured legs or no legs at all, and that he was using forearm crutches to walk. There was no way this old man could be Ewan.
The woman and the man crossed a wide asphalt road, then turned left around a wide corner of vacant lots and houses to a wide, run-down residential road. The old man walked ahead of the woman. The woman fell far behind the man.
Another man ran, somewhat stealthily, up behind the old man, also possibly thinking, like I had thought, that the old man was the Ewan character. The other man threw a tube, like a metal tube of paint, in the man's direction. I knew this tube was really a bomb. I wanted to call to the man, to protect him. But I didn't.
The paint tube, possibly with dried paint (or caulk?) layered on its surface near the cap, flew over the old man's head and landed maybe ten or fifteen feet in front of the old man. The tube "exploded." It made a loudish, hollow, popping sound, but did nothing visual. But there were airy shock waves that knocked the man over.
I could tell, as the old man flew backward and to the ground, that more damage had been done to him. He'd probably sustained some pretty severe injuries in his limbs. I thought, Now that this has happened to the old man, will the Ewan character fight the mob guys?
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