White River, Blue Water

December 26, 2009 at 9:53 AM | Posted in Personal | 1 Comment
  I like it when my dreams make sense…

  I was reading this book, and I became immersed in it, and for some reason I really identified with one of the characters.  However, as I explained to someone else–it might have been Detroit or it might have been Erica, my boss–I felt misled at the end.
  The story was some kind of romantic thing, where the woman had to choose between two men.  No, as a matter of fact, I have not seen "Sophie’s Choice."  Anyway, I had identified with one of the male leads, but in the end, he was not the one chosen, the other was.  As I described it, I felt there was not enough difference between the two men.  One of them should have been good, and one of them should have been evil.  To make it like this, where was no real clear difference, just seemed to me to be cruel to them.
  "But it’s ‘literature,’" Erica told me.  Maybe so, but I don’t like it.  I prefer pulp, where men in black are bad, men in white are good, and women in tight bodices get ravaged.  Plus, what was going to come of the young Samuel L Jackson, who played one of the men in the movie?
  I was discussing it with him–or someone–as we drove through the woods down some gravel and dirt roads.  Trying to light a cigarette, I missed a turn.  Instead of backing up I just turned through the young growth trees and found my way back to the road.
  We made our way down the hill to the river, and then we were in a boat.  It was more like a creek than a river.  And the boat was narrow like a canoe, but not quite a canoe, because I’m no good in them.  We made excellent time rowing, and even though we were going upstream we were traveling fast as though we were going down stream.  We came to a fork in the river, and went to the left because it was the larger the two choices.  Immediately we came to an area of rapids and trees and crap in the river.  We kind of rowed right over that, and then I was alone and I was in the lake above that fed the river.
  In dreams, I’m an excellent, tireless swimmer.  The water was clear and clean and blue.  The sky was a wonderful sky blue, and the trees that surrounded the lake were a lush, cool green.  I tried to estimate the size of the lake.  It wasn’t large, but still I was surprised to see a lake of this size where I was.  I estimated it to be about 16 to 20 acres.
  And where was I?  Obviously not in a real place.  My dreamscape places this area between the small wooded area in Collinsville that I lived near briefly as a child, and the woods and coal mine that were near some property my parents owned near what I considered my real childhood home.  Near it was going to be the forested area near my cousin’s house that we used to play in.  But that comes later.
  I swam with ease across the lake, and in this corner I saw the lake was fed from another river that flowed into it.  There were rock formations here, like part of a quarry.  I swam over, and stood up when the water became shallow, and then walked on the beach to the rock formations.  I climbed up and around, and when I got to the top I was looking down into a natural type of ampitheater.  There were people in there, about a dozen.  I gathered, and then a few explained to me, that they were an amateur explorer’s club.  Great.  We climbed together through the rocks and so forth.
  At one point, a middle-aged fat guy who looked a lot like me was struggling as he climbed down the rocks.  But I–a younger, more fit me–climbed down past him with ease.  As we went through this odd break in the rocks, some of us were beseiged with lady bugs and tiny spiders that were biting.  It wasn’t dangerous, but the bites were hurting.  I was getting bitten on my hands and fingers.
  Those of us being attached tried to shake them off as we continued to climb through and then down.  We were on the other side now, at a new beach.  The river flowed away, towards a train bridge, and then beyond it it split into two rivers.
  All the water in the lake and in this river was calm and still, by the way.  I picked up my bag and planned to part ways with these people.  I couldn’t remember if I had a bag before, but now it makes sense that I did, I guess.  It was a black canvas duffle.  Of course, now I was wondering how I was going to swim and not get it wet, because I was sure–although I didn’t open it to look–that it was full of expensive camera equipment.
  I had walked along the sandy bottom area and was now in the shade of the train bridge.  Some of the people called to me to wait a second.  I stopped, and from the rear of the group a young woman came up.  As it turns out she was Christine, from my high school class, and she had been a no-show at all the reunions.
  She said, well give me you number, and I can call you and get on your mailing list.  I opened my bag and tried to find something to write on.  I had a pen.  For whatever reason all I had was a clear plastic container that a toy or device might be packaged in.  I wrote the number on it and handed it to her, but she couldn’t read it.  I took the plastic and turned it towards the sun, so that the sunlight gleamed upon it, and the number was then legible.  "Oh, great."
  We turned to part ways.

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  1. And that made sense?


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