I left my last dream only moments ago. I was standing in a pit that I had stepped into. I had sunken into the soft sandy side of it and was unable to extricate myself. I was holding onto a guitar with no strings, which I needed to hand off to someone.
So I called to Shannon, my ex-therapist. I knew she'd be disappointed in me for having messed up the sandcastle-like finish of her freshly dug pit. It was to be a swimming pool or some other such decorative fountain but needed the finishing touches of a hardened surface. I did manage to get her attention, and she took my guitar from me, just before I woke up, still having not escaped from the pit.
Previously, I had been out walking down a road which looked like Loma Rica Road. There was a place where a burn pile was being assembled, near the corner of Las Verjeles, on the farm of a man I was familiar with.
For some reason, I was to utilize that area for a drop point for a bag of weed that I was toting around. I didn't see my intended target, but I did see some other people coming, and I felt I needed to ditch the weed. I stashed it in the burn pile under some cedar shavings and left the area.
In a nearby, more residential area, which was unrecognizable, yet somehow my hometown, I was approached by a couple of young boys, teenage or preteen. One had a mild disposition, and I greeted him, and he passed me without incident.
The other I greeted, but I sensed that he was going to be trouble. Something in his look told me that I needed to take him out, or he might just kill me. So rather than wait for his response, I struck him squarely in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground.
This startled everyone: him, his friend and even me. How could I be so cold? He got up and was crying a bit and I tried to console him.
"I didn't mean to knock you out. I really thought you were going to be more of a threat."
I tried to apologize, and, at some point, found a guitar that I intended to play, as some sort of peace offering. The guitar had no strings, however, and I wandered about for a bit trying to find some.
It was at this point that I stumbled into Shannon's pit. She had taken my guitar and set it down carefully and was in the process of trying to find me a rope when I woke up.
Damn, too bad she quit her job at Sutter-Yuba Mental Health. Now who will I tell my crazy dreams to?
No comments:
Post a Comment
I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.