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I haven't written but a couple-few paragraphs since just before Hawaii. When I haven't been busy I've been wiped out and making it worse with stupidness. Today I will spend getting Emma and myself to various medical appointments, then the nice fellow is taking her to San Francisco to spend the summer living with my parents and working in the labor law office of the nice lady downstairs and sometimes babysitting her children. I think that then excessive busy-ness dies down for a while. Though I still have long days with my befuddled friend and Bingo to contend with and so on.
Anyway, I had another of those long narrative dreams this morning, this one with a plot and resolution. It's not the kind of story I write but I think I need to remember it. I don't know why.
THe setting is a beach town. The beach in question is duney, not cliffy, but the weather is bright and sunny, unlike the duney beaches I know, which are in coastal fog areas.
There's a bunch of adolescents who are getting some kind of crap from their families and the community -- there were details in the dream but I don't recall them -- most of which is focussed on two of them. There's a crisis, whose details I have lost, and the group of teenagers hatches a plot to get the two most oppressed teenagers and a grandmother and a grandfather (or grandaunt and granduncle, I'm not sure, nor am I sure exactly who they are related to) out of town. It's an elaborate dance involving strange cars hiden behind dunes and lots of social evasive action, and featuring one of the conspirators giving a long talk about how she doesn't intend to leave with the rest of them because her own life is pretty good, including the details of how good her life is -- but those details are absurd, like the twin-drawer dishwasher her parents have which is faced with this weird sort of streaked wood like the rest of the kitched (guess who read Sunset magazine last night). Now the dream is movie-like, focussing in on that cabinetry, and in time-lapse showing the wood become faded and worn and finally replaced by something else. And then the girl, much mush taller, enters the house and her parents and little brother and sister are in the living room and when they see her they scramble to the huge chairs and curl up in them like sleeping dogs, closing their eyes tight and refusing to acknowledge her -- for a few seconds. They pop up, smiling, laughing, so glad to see her, and she does a recital of how settles and successful all of the runaways are now. They live in Seattle and one has a restaurant, one is a writer (I think a trechnical writer, actually: during the dream my mind wandered and I was musing about the different kinds of writing that one can do and call oneself a writer), I forget what the others are, and the one who didn't think she wanted to leave is a mechanic. Somebody mentiuons something about twenty years but this is a dream, and nobody has aged twenty years, and the younger siblings and the grandparents haven't aged at all.
I don't know why I have to remember this dream.
Anyway, I had another of those long narrative dreams this morning, this one with a plot and resolution. It's not the kind of story I write but I think I need to remember it. I don't know why.
THe setting is a beach town. The beach in question is duney, not cliffy, but the weather is bright and sunny, unlike the duney beaches I know, which are in coastal fog areas.
There's a bunch of adolescents who are getting some kind of crap from their families and the community -- there were details in the dream but I don't recall them -- most of which is focussed on two of them. There's a crisis, whose details I have lost, and the group of teenagers hatches a plot to get the two most oppressed teenagers and a grandmother and a grandfather (or grandaunt and granduncle, I'm not sure, nor am I sure exactly who they are related to) out of town. It's an elaborate dance involving strange cars hiden behind dunes and lots of social evasive action, and featuring one of the conspirators giving a long talk about how she doesn't intend to leave with the rest of them because her own life is pretty good, including the details of how good her life is -- but those details are absurd, like the twin-drawer dishwasher her parents have which is faced with this weird sort of streaked wood like the rest of the kitched (guess who read Sunset magazine last night). Now the dream is movie-like, focussing in on that cabinetry, and in time-lapse showing the wood become faded and worn and finally replaced by something else. And then the girl, much mush taller, enters the house and her parents and little brother and sister are in the living room and when they see her they scramble to the huge chairs and curl up in them like sleeping dogs, closing their eyes tight and refusing to acknowledge her -- for a few seconds. They pop up, smiling, laughing, so glad to see her, and she does a recital of how settles and successful all of the runaways are now. They live in Seattle and one has a restaurant, one is a writer (I think a trechnical writer, actually: during the dream my mind wandered and I was musing about the different kinds of writing that one can do and call oneself a writer), I forget what the others are, and the one who didn't think she wanted to leave is a mechanic. Somebody mentiuons something about twenty years but this is a dream, and nobody has aged twenty years, and the younger siblings and the grandparents haven't aged at all.
I don't know why I have to remember this dream.
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