After a crazy fun evening (and, indeed, the entire week has been pretty over the top, both busy and fun), I had a ridiculously boring dream about being at my mom’s house loading the dishwasher before I went to work, so that when I got home three hours later, the dishes would be clean and waiting for us.
When I woke up, I thought that my subconscious must be trying to make up for my crazy waking life by providing really dull dreams, but when I went back to sleep, I discovered that was not the case. I had an epic, three-hour dream that I’m not sure I’ll be able to stitch together into a coherent narrative, but it really was one of the longest dreams I’ve ever had. You’ve been duly warned.
* * * * *
I’m visiting Brother’s family at his house, which in the dream is more like an art palace. Its design resembles that of the Guggenheim museum inside, with multiple circular levels and rooms with no stairways between them, only floors that slope and curve around within the house. The walls are painted dark brown, and there is orange and blue ultra-modern furniture everywhere, as well as very tasteful modern art. It’s a bit like Guggenheim meets Dr. Seuss, but somehow it all works and looks very beautiful.
I find a piece of mushy chicken on the floor, and, thinking one of the kids must’ve dropped it, I pick it up and start looking for a wastebasket. Sister-in-Law is trying to ask me something, and I’m trying to tell her that I’ll be there in a second, but she can’t seem to hear me. She keeps having to shout from elsewhere within the house, “Are you there? I’m asking you something!” Brother is in the kitchen, so I ask him about a wastebasket, which he produces from under the sink. Within the one large basket are three small bags, each for recycling or food or whatever. I ask where to put the chicken, and he points vaguely toward a corner of the basket. I deposit it where I think he means, but he grabs it and places it gently in a different bag.
The dream changes, and I’m walking in a sort of industrial park along the waterfront of Puget Sound south of Seattle. I’m not there for any real reason, but I find myself intrigued by this large stone double door that appears to be the portal to a ship on the other side of it. I stand in front of the door, and it opens. I step forward into the lobby area of the ship. The ceilings are very high, and the room is opulently but sparsely furnished, a bit like a hotel lobby. The walls are the painted the faintest shade of pink, and there is a downward spiral staircase not far from the entrance. I am greeted by a short man wearing a tight body suit and a black fencing mask so thick that his face isn’t visible through it at all. He seems to be a security guard of some type. He walks over and gruffly asks me my name. I tell him, just after I take a bite of food, so my answer is garbled. He understands me, though, and he says, “You didn’t even lie.” He’s surprised that I give him my real name, which he somehow knows. “Of course not,” I reply. “Why should I lie?”
I get the feeling that this man is planning some sort of harm to me, so I make a slow movement to touch or remove his mask. As soon as my finger touches it, the mask disappears and the man shrinks down to about eighteen inches tall. He is all head and feet and arms, with a tiny body connecting everything. He’s suddenly gone from being a threat to a joke, and I find myself trying to suppress laughter at the sight of this pathetic excuse for a watchdog. He motions for me to follow him down the spiral staircase, and I do. When we walk to the bottom, there is a group of mobsters standing around in suits. It seems that the man I encountered is either a scout for new members or a deterrent for nosy rubberneckers, or both. I make a run for the stairway, and slide down the inner rail to the next lowest level, which is a Japanese store of some sort.
The room is square, and painted bright white. The store is filled with Japanese toys and gifts and trinkets of all sizes and colors, and the shelves are piled high with clothes and art and DVD’s and posters. There are large paintings on the walls, in vibrant reds and blacks and blues. There are two employees working, and they both greet me in Japanese as I walk down the stairway into their store. I wander through the aisles for a moment, but when I find another stairway, I step into it and walk down to a different level, which is a not-particularly-nice furniture and stereo equipment showroom.
I grab a stereo brochure from a little box near the base of the stairway, and I’m glancing at it when an older gentleman approaches me. He’s a salesman, and he’s wearing an old-fashioned suit. “What can I help you with?” he asks. I look up from the brochure, a bit surprised, and I walk over to the tiny display of a few small stereo receivers. I tell him I don’t need anything, and that I’m just there to look. The man replies, “That’s just what I was hoping someone would come in today and say.” I thank him, and go back to the stairway, which has a second downward offshoot, which I walk down.
I am surprised at the bottom of the stairs by a large group of mobsters and men wearing fencing masks. These men all have guns, and they are actively out to get me. They start shooting at me as soon as they see me, and I have to run away from them as fast as I can. I run to a door, push it open, and find myself outside on the flat cement deck of the ship. I look out at the waves on the water and think to myself, I forgot I was even on a ship. My brain sure is doing a good job of remembering details. The men burst out the door behind me a moment later, guns blazing, and I run to the far edge of the ship’s deck. I seem to have lost the men, and I take a moment to breathe. I look up from my breathing to see that a few of my friends from real life (a Japanese aerialist and a group of martial artists) are there on the ship too. They seem to be on the run from the same guys, so we agree to stick together. “Did you guys go through the stores and everything too?” I ask them. “I’d forgotten I was even on a boat at all.”
At this point, something happens and we get separated. I find myself at the stairway with no one else in sight. I grab hold of the rail, and I get whisked up the stairs at breakneck speed, around and around and around, until I am deposited on the pier outside the stone door at the entrance to the ship. I decide I need to tell Brother about this, so the dream’s time and location changes. It is now early evening, and I’m at my brother’s dark, small, three-bedroom, second-floor apartment. We are sitting in the living room on the plush white sofa (all of the furniture is white), and I’m telling him about the crazy experiences I’ve just had. While we’re talking, the door is open, and two attractive young women walk by on the apartment’s landing. I say to Brother, in my best Butthead voice, “Hey, bay-beh.” He laughs and rolls his eyes at me. We get up and he shows me around his place. I look into the bedrooms, expecting to find kids’ clothes and stuff, but the other rooms are furnished with double beds, and it’s clear that he has roommates, which I was unaware of. “Who else lives here?” I ask him, looking into one of the rooms. One of the young women has appeared behind me. She is wearing a Chicago Cubs baseball uniform, and has just gotten home from practice. “I do,” she says, and smiles. We talk for a minute, and then she tells me to get down on my hands and knees. I do, and she sits down on my back as if I’m a horse. She’s petite and not very heavy, so I crawl around with her for a while. We crawl under tables and chairs, and we come to a coffee table that is lower than other things we’ve gone under. “We’ll make it,” she says encouragingly.
“Okay,” I say, smiling, “but we’ll need to get low.” She leans forward onto me, and I can feel her breath on my neck and cheek. We try to pass under the coffee table, but we’re not quite low enough. “Lower,” I say, and she flattens herself against my back and shoulder, leaning her head against mine and putting her arms around my chest. We try again, and the table is still too low, but we decide that we like being that close, so she stays wrapped around me as I crawl slowly and deliberately across the living room, down the hallway, and to the bedroom where Brother is reading to the three kids. Niece sees me, stands up, and walks over to the doorway to lean down and give me a hug. Somehow I’m able to reach an arm up and hug Niece without dislodging my lovely passenger.
* * * * *
There were a couple of other scenes in the ship, and another Japanese component to the story, but those details are sadly eluding me at the moment. If I do manage to remember them, I’ll be sure to add them later.
