The dream was predominantly set at Palomar College. There
wre many appointments to be kept.
The conveyance that took me from the college to my lodging
took a Reliably dreary and absurdly solitary route.
What sticks to the memory with fidelity is the closing
episode, involving Alexis George.
The prelude to this was a text message that I received upon
arrival at, if not in transit to, the apartment wherein I was staying. In fact,
it may have been not a text but a missed call. The actual location I had been
in may, in fact, have resembled in emotional texture more of a way-station than
reliable lodging.
The call came from a phone of whose number the first three
digits (after the area code) were 100
or 101. I called back. A young woman, almost like an effeminate man in her
speech, answered as though she and I had been acquainted and even–one might
day–Known one another for a pardonably long time to merit the sense of
entitlement.She was, with almost certainty I can say, representative of Kristen
Miao, whose periodic signs of sexual interest
I admit shamelessly to be arousing.
The events had such a vividity that they felt as though I
weren’t dreaming: The solemnity and the excitement seemed to express a truth
and awaken a concern that transcended
the distinction betwixt Dream and Reality. When I got another call within
moments of contact with this voice, which may, in fact, have been merely(but still significantly)a
voice recording left on my answering machine, the all felt nothing short of a
synchron– icity. It was not as though the synchronicity felt authentic because
it so resembled Waking life that it made Waking life appear less significant; a
synchronicity in the waking state was not rendered in any way superior in reality because of the waking state.
The call had come from Alexis.
She invited me to her apartment. I do not recall under what
auspices this invitation was offered,
but I gladly and eagerly accepted. I practically fled the dormlike complex
wherein I was stationed.
She drove
me along a highway that seemed as though it might have passed for and in fact
actually been the road by which,in a prior dream from the previous year, tried
to flee Washington, D.C. upon a grim portension of Obama’s impending tyranny.In
that instance, police officers or federal officials rendered me escape futile
with a grimly silent humour.
This road passed through a landscape almost certainly taken
from The expansive fields my family had driven in the midst of during that
Actual Re-visit of the East Coast.
Alexis was most like a woman in a Philip K. Dick novel.
Her home
was a modernized Japanese lodging, with bamboo walls filtering the evening
light in a hypnotic, almost sickeningly ostentatious amber that did not,
however, remder the rooms any less habitable. I met Alexisparents, unsure of
what to expect, as though in passing. Thrir stony expressions acknowledged me
with Stoic politeness and a stifled nervous sparseness. This characteristic of
our meeting, supplemented by the homely resemblance of the nook wherein I met them
to that of the Staiger residence, suggests a
thinly veiled homage to meeting the Staiger family in Actuality.
Alexis
impressed upon me that the beds in the next room were welcome for me to lie on.
I accepted the offer.
Within moments, her father entered the room; there wasn’t a
door, just a white floor continuous between two rooms and a rectangular doorway
in the bamboo wall against which the head of the mattress rested.
Alexis may have been absent when her father entered. At any
rate, She wasevent-ually absent whilst he was present. Their dog, a large
animal like that of Richard, hopped
onto me.
The father maybe assured me, with little affect,that
the dog was friendly, if not very friendly.
The dog was
clearly part–wolf.He would have torn my throat out had I not put my right
forearm between his crushing jaws. I awoke as he must have been about to bite
through it or get off, the latter of which would have been without his own
volition.
dm.A.A.
No comments:
Post a Comment