Air Guitar Testing Center

I had my guitar with me, and I was walking along a narrow mountain pass overlooking a lake. It was a windy day, and the guitar kept getting tugged out out of my hand by the wind. Held to my chest only by the strap, the wind kept trying to pull it skyward like a kite. A particularly strong gust threatened to lift us both off of the mountain, and I had no choice but to disconnect the strap and watch the guitar go sailing. 

It landed in the lake. Immediately I regretted the decision to release the guitar, and I went down to the lake to retrieve it. Some kids were swimming with their dad, and I asked them to please push the guitar towards shore. They complied, grudgingly, and I got the guitar back. It was already waterlogged and had become almost unrecognizable. All the electronics were gone, the finish was faded, and it had a  cardboard like appearance.

 

 

The testing center was a sprawling complex of buildings, some single level and others four and five stories high. The floors were a highly polished industrial linoleum, and the hallways were a labyrinth like affair, laid out like a hospital, with lots of switchbacks and dead ends, guaranteed to make anyone lose their sense of direction.

Finding one’s correct homeroom is never easy, and of course I was late for the intake exam, having struggled to navigate the maze-like structure. The teacher had already handed out the tests, so I silently slunk into my seat, a standard metal folding chair in a long row of chairs, filled with tittering, gossiping students, smirking with satisfaction at my discomfort. As punishment for being late, the teacher seated me next to a girl who was contagious with some kind of infectious disease.

“I hope you don’t mind getting sick,” he said.

The girl was pretty, a blonde with a round, smiling face. She moved her seat so that her chair was touching mine, and she was practically in my lap.

“I don’t mind in the least,” I said. “But if you want to make sure that I get sick, there are ways…” I said suggestively.

At that, the girl nuzzled closer and laid a gentle kiss on my lips, catching me pleasantly by surprise. I gazed back into her eyes, and we exchanged a few more more kisses.

“To ensure the contamination is complete,” I said, winking.

Things got hazy at this point, and I spent much of the dream walking through the hallways, going from building to building, looking for the girl from the exam room. I found myself in many different situations, sometimes alone and sometimes with large groups of students. Everyone was waiting for their test results, trying to get to the next level. 

Still carrying the guitar from the previous dream, eventually I set it against the wall and climbed to the top of a small building to get a better view. Another guy climbed up the building after me, and the two of us sat there on the roof, talking about logistics and purpose. Neither of us had much of a clue as to why we were there. It just seemed like this was the game, and we were bound to play.

 

A Slacker's Valentine

E____, 

My dearest, dearest friend. You mean the world to me. I am certain you already know how I feel about you, so words are unnecessary at this point. I want you to know that, were it not for fear of reprisal, earning your ire and receiving banishment as a consequence, I would make every effort, do all the cliche gestures, even the grandest ones, to make this Valentine's Day a special and memorable day for you. 

Even though we both say that we hate all the enforced commercialism of this guilt-based corporate holiday, I know that a lot of that is (at least on my part) a sour grapes mentality. Inside, I'm a sentimental sap and a true romantic at heart, and whether you'd care to admit it or not, I'm pretty sure that you are too.

So I would make the reservations at the fancy restaurant on the busiest day of the year, spend hours in the stationary store poring over cards for the perfect one, visit a florist and and have a bouquet of your favorite flowers delivered to your house, shower you with gifts...basically all the stuff guys might reluctantly do out of a sense of obligation, thinking that they are supposed to. Better yet, I would conspire to concoct a much more personalized version, reflecting your unique taste and vision and embracing your spirit of adventure.

I would gladly do all of it because, if I thought it would make you happy, it would be no trouble at all. It would be my delight. Even given my extreme slackerism, lack of follow-through and general reluctance to do things that require effort, I would take pleasure in it because I would want you to feel the depth and breadth and magnitude of my love for you.

Instead, I'm sitting here, about to eat my breakfast, thinking of you on this rainy February 14. But because you are in my life, I am not sad, nor do I feel lonely. You exist in my heart, and you always will. That makes me happy. I hope you are well in body and soul, and that your heart feels joy on this day. 

Love you always,

Your friend, Andrew

 

I’m having daddy issues in my dreams.

Walking up my driveway, I could already feel his presence, and my anger began to build. He was always telling me what to do, demeaning me with his most critical commentary. Some of my other relatives were in the house watching TV in a very small den. I tried to find room, but the seats were all filled.

“Get out!” Father screamed at me. “You don’t have any business here!” 

He looked like Mr. Roper from Three's Company, but his voice was that of Burgess Meredith's Mick character in Rocky.

I had been listening to his vicious antagonism for years, but today I was done. I put my hands around his neck and began to choke him. He fought back, but I easily restrained him, grabbing his arms and legs into a bundle, and swinging him around like a sack of laundry.

“Are you going to give up yet?” I seethed at him.

“You don’t have the guts,” he retorted, his breathing labored.

I was determined that this would be the last time he'd ever abuse me, and I kept swinging him around and bashing his head into furniture. I became afraid that I might actually kill him, so I kept my blows just shy of bringing him to unconsciousness.

At some point, his frail body morphed into a large commemorative coin inside an actual laundry sack. Although it still contained his essence, it was now a giant replica of a dime with a human sized head, flat and silvery, inside an oversized gold pocket watch case with a glass door.

This inanimate object still would not stop talking, and I kept bashing him against furniture to silence his obstreperous voice. At some point, the head must have come out of the watch case and slipped out of the bag, and I finally stopped hearing the deriding comments.

Now I was becoming concerned that I might be guilty of actual murder, and I began looking for the missing head.

A young girl was singing a dirge, grieving over the opening to the cellar.  I didn’t suppose that the head had rolled down there, so I bid her a sorrowful afternoon, and she continued her slow singing.

Looking around the property, I could not find this icon of a dastardly father figure anywhere. I knew there would be questions, so I kept looking. I did want him dead, but I was afraid of the consequences. Infinitely bad karma? Punishment in this lifetime and a hellish afterlife?

I kept looking, but I never did find him. I awoke with an uneasy sense of guilt.

Field trip to Phoenix

I was in Phoenix on a field trip with friends, one of whom was the likeable oafish fellow on Everybody Loves Raymond. I think he also played Frankenstein in some TV version of the classic horror flick. 

I kept hearing the strains of a Queen song playing over the bus's PA, and I knew that this was meant to lure me onto the bus. The bus fare was free. When I tried to give money to the driver, he pulled out a roll of quarters and gave me change as well as giving me back my dollar, for a net profit of 100%. I  looked around the bus for a familiar face, but there were just strangers.

Are my dreams someone else's nightmares?

 

I keep returning to this place in my dreams (not the bed store in Chico where I bought my bed 20 years ago). Actually, I don’t go anywhere. I’m in my bed in my dreams as well. The place I keep returning to is a place of warmth and coziness, with my friend E____ lying beside me. 

It’s never sexual, although I won’t say there isn’t desire. It’s more of a contented feeling, and the wish to extend that to her physically somehow. There is the electricity of a single touch, a warm satiety, like the feeling of a full belly after a good meal. We share that in my dreams. I’m always hesitant, and I always ask if she’s OK with it. Clearly, I am.

I was in bed in such a situation, and she was lying next to me, my arms loosely encircling her waist. Something shifted, and she rolled over on top of me. My hands slipped dangerously close to regions unexplored. I didn’t cause it, however, I wasn’t fighting it when it happened.

“Is this OK?” I asked.

“It’s fine,” she said, and she didn’t squirm, so I left everything as it was and just enjoyed the moment.

Next, we were in the kitchen, and she was making something that used lasagna noodles. She used about half of the package and put the rather plain looking pasta dish in a Tupperware as a to-go meal. As she headed out the door, she asked me what I was going to eat. I told her that I would make something using the rest of the lasagna noodles.

“I think I’ll make lasagna,” I said.

Looking around, I could see that I was short quite a few ingredients to make actual lasagna, as she had left me only a few of the flat noodles, and I had no ricotta, mozzarella, tomato sauce or ground beef. 

“It’s going to be pretty skimpy,” I admitted. 

She suggested that I go to town, not necessarily to pick up ingredients, but to clear my head. I agreed this would be a good idea, and I got in my car.

I was driving down a mountain road, rather bumpy and steep, in my Honda fit. The headlights were doing a poor job of illuminating the road. I turned them off momentarily, and it made very little difference.

Misty Rose

The next thing I recall, I was making the same trip during the daytime, this time astride my Tennessee Walking Horse, Misty Rose. She wasn’t the old, arthritic pasture horse that she would later become, but in her prime and rather frisky. She trotted down the road at a brisk pace, and I had to post just to keep from bouncing out of the saddle. She always did have the tendency to mix her gaits. 

We were in a mountainous canyon with a river that ran alongside the road. We came to a place where the river was inches from a narrow point in the trail. The water, to our left, was a raging Yosemite like torrent. We were hemmed in on the right by rocks. She navigated the narrow opening with ease. It began to get dark, so I made the decision to turn back, however, the path we had had taken was not even visible on the return trip. The narrow spot had been swallowed up by the river.

I looked around, getting off of Misty to investigate. I found a different path, through a nearby parking lot with a gate that led to a safer spot on the road. Misty had become separated from me for a moment, and I whistled and called to her frantically. She came bounding up to me like a puppy dog, and I threw my arms around her neck. She tumbled over onto me, and I thought for a moment that I would be crushed, but she turned out to be light as a feather, and we rolled around like a couple of kids on the grass on a summer day.

Well, that was weird and exciting...and upsetting. But mostly just weird.

My friend E____ was staying with me at my place by Lake Isabella, which I have to assume would’ve been Gracie and Bill’s old property. She had made a new friend and was making plans to host him for a sleepover/dinner. She was stressing and fretting about the details of this dinner and talking to me about it. I was trying to be the supportive friend, but it was testing my limits.

I was feeling quite a bit of jealousy, as it appeared that he would soon be taking my place in her life. My nerdy nemesis was played by actor Jeff Hiller, and he outclassed me in every area that mattered: sensitivity, charm, intelligence, quirky sense of humor and adventurousness. He had it all. I was a damp dishrag next to this paragon of beta male dorkishness.

 “I’ve never hosted anyone for dinner before, so that’s why I’m stressed,” she said.

“No,” I said, “I remember you made spaghetti dinner for him just last week.”

I tried to tell her that I understood, although I really didn’t feel very understanding, just jealous and hurt. I reached out to give her a hug, and she shank back from me. I got a cold, clammy feeling, like I had just committed an unpardonable act. I tried to repair the damage by changing my tack and offering to help her with her plans.

Soon we were on a long walk in the dry, dusty valley that is Lake Isabella. It was pretty much the same as I remember it, flat and sparsely populated with lots of undeveloped properties checker-boarding the town perimeter. 

"You wanna see something that makes me happy?" she asked.

She pulled the Mucros Irish flat cap that I'd given her for her birthday out of her oversize bookbag and put it on her head. Smiling, she said, "This makes me happy!"

We got to a crossroad, and I suggested we take a shortcut, but this didn’t appear to work into her plans. We talked about logistics, and how to get back home in time for her dinner date. At this point, I woke up, still feeling a bit unpleasant about the matter.

It was early enough in the morning that I was able to fall back asleep. I wanted to try to get back into the dream to correct it somehow. I wasn’t able to find the same location, however, my friend E____ did reappear. 

We were in a neighborhood near a house where she had grown up as a child. It looked similar to Glendale, the Glendale that I remember from the 70s, although it may have been any number of older Southern California tract neighborhoods.

As we walked along the sleepy, tree lined avenues, we noticed a small red airplane, flying very low into the neighborhood. It looked to be about the size of a crop duster, and it was flying low enough to do the job, nearly nicking the power lines as it approached. Clearly, this was below the level of permissible flight. 

It kept descending, and for a moment, it seemed to be headed straight toward us. We watched in amazement as the plane whooshed by us, blowing our hair back (well, hers anyway) before flying directly into a house. Rather than crashing and exploding, however, it bounced harmlessly off the siding and became the size of a small drone, maybe 5 foot long at the most.

We were going to drop her car off at the dealership to get serviced, and she needed a ride, but for some reason we both were walking, and there was no car, so I don’t know how that was all going to work. But no mind, it was a dream and stranger things have happened.

As we approach the service department, she began acting strangely. She affected a different personality or I should say, she amplified the bubbly, effervescent aspect of her personality to a manic level. She approached random strangers, grabbing their shoulders and shouting nonsensical comments in their faces, all of which began to cause a bit of a stir. 

“Are you OK?” I asked. “You are behaving a bit oddly.” (And by oddly, I meant even by E____standards.) 

She replied with a non-sequitur and continued her rant to a quickly gathering crowd. Cell phones and cameras came out to record the viral event: the kooky lady and her befuddled friend who seemed to be trying to rein her in without much success.

Suddenly, she began to sprint down the block, weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic, eventually stopping to hide behind a small alcove in an alley. She was lying flat on the ground, making herself as thin as a piece of paper, so as not to be seen. I got the impression that she was doing some kind of performance art, and she was not happy with the fact that I was not going along with it. 

The dream ended there, and I was left with a kind of a weird mix of excitement, disappointment and a little of the fading jealousy from the previous dream.