for reasons unknown, I was a fugitive on a large plane heading to los angeles with my family. down in the cargo bay, I had to fight my way through a series of crates only to find the plane disintigrating. my father and I, wearing winter clothes for some reason, leaped from the bay as the plane began to fall apart.
as we floated down somewhere over brentwood, I ripped off my hat and gloves, tied my scarf to either side of my jacket’s sleeves and held on, forming a parachute - thanks to the magic of dream physics, this actually worked and my arms were not torn from their sockets or anything like that. I was able to slow my descent and make a running landing in a bucolic canyon overlooking a series of very nice houses.
“now we just can’t be seen,” I told my father, who landed nearby.
“we should call your friend dan,” said my father, even though none of my friends named dan live in los angeles in the real world. I told him this but he ignored it.
as it turned out, the bucolic canyon was part of a religious retreat/spa. we stumbled out into a small blue striped tent that served as the entrance location to the disapproving glares of men and women wearing similarly blue-striped towels. my father said something about purchasing a membership to the man behind the desk guarding the entrance, to which the man snapped “christ’s love is not for sale,” so we left.
at some point, driving with my head low along sunset boulevard, I was called on to read a scene from “tamourlaine,” which in the real world I have never read. I held up the faded parchment it was printed on, but I was overcome with stage fright when my cue came. (my dreams are very good at coming up with excuses for why things that are not possible in them, like reading or telling time, can’t be done.)
I woke up and washington was covered in snow.
March 02, 2009, 2:18pm Comments
