Dream Journal Sixty-six.

            The dream culminated in my wandering into an apartment wherein, I think, six Russian men roughly my age were seated about a television set playing video games.

The pale white light from thje television leant relief to the austere, foreboding room, whose colour was a primer gray that could be described as a faded, mellow jet black.

The boys were unperturb–ed  by my entry, as though we were part of the same communal arrangement as could be expected at either Camp Fox,Palomar College, or a Speech and Debate tournament.They were, however,surprised to find me in absorbed attention of their proceedings,as though I were a longtime member of the group. They spoke with Russian sarcasm and aggression, jibing  at one another with little remorse but, by virtue of mutual, socially appropriate ambivalence, little malice.

I sat listening for some opportunity to interject.

They pried on, oblivious to my capacity to understand their language.Finally, one particularly but endearingly (but intimidating) nasty-looking one most akin to Konstantin, blonde and practically emaciated, asked me, I think, either for my name or for some justification for why I was there.He did not ask impolitely, but it was part of a tribal inquiry that the six of the friends invoked simultaneously. If the question had been for my name, I probably responded ‘Dmitry’, prompting promptly a curious but more eager question of my Russian heritage. This, if that had been the case, I affirmed, shortly thereafter demonstrating my speaking skills. The encounter with the young men felt so primitive and archaic that it may even have been the enactment of either a prior life orm as had seemed less absurd towards the end of the dream or shortly following it than it does now, an instance,even,from my father’s life.

I left the apartment and set foot outside again. It was probably a replica of the cement courtyard in the midst of the trailer classrooms the night of the Speech and Debate tournament which had been held at the Charter high school. The apartment that I had wandered into may very well have been the classroom wherein I watched the Original Oratories (?)given.

The space had been expanded to the proportions of a Community College, with the demeanour of a back-country wherein to find refuge.I had been referred to this cul-de-sac of the village with the promise of finding some good time. The reference came on a train ride that seeme dto have been the tapering of a dramatically disappointing, Kafkaesqueday made unemotional by how commonplace it was. What I had found was a restaurant along the back row whose allure had actually been so because it was Russian. It offered a bar and an aesthetic whose enticing quality was lost on me when I discerned its origin.

The hills I set foot onto upon exit from the apartment were probably from the first level of the Ratchet and Clank multi – player game that I had played with Tyler Hager, Bakisi (A)isles.

            I set foot onto these jasmine, moonlit hills for only some time, wandering aimlessly, before determining that the sensible course was to return to the apartment.

Upon my return,the group had all ready  dispersed.

 

                                    dm.A.A.