Dream: Superhero in Wooden Shoes

dream 20020305: Superhero in Wooden Shoes

This dream seems very disjointed and busy; the scenes aren’t entirely cohesive.

I’m watching a stage show. I realize that the Sammons Center is putting the show on, and I’m in charge of making sure that things go smoothly, but this seems like an easy job because things are going very well. I think I have a clipboard, or maybe it’s a satchel or briefcase. I’m watching as The Bare Naked Ladies are performing a song – but it’s not the actual band, it’s a bunch of real naked women. I think to myself how surprising it is that they really sing like that; I thought it was just a cool name.

Then I’m looking up the hill toward a building that is serving as our green room and staging area; I think to myself that I hope I get to at least go up there and visit with a couple of the artists. Then I’m inside the building, but it’s a tent like we had at the Jazz Festival, with a gravel floor. The Naked Ladies are there, but dressed; I stop one of them, shake her hand, and tell them how much I enjoyed their set, and that I’m with the Sammons Center. They all shake my hand one after another, and I’m glad I came up here. I want to dance; there is a space down in the front, and I start dancing there by myself as if I had an imaginary partner. I think I’m hoping that somebody will see that I CAN dance, and join me. No luck there.

Then I’m outside, in front of some bleachers. I see Melissa Johnson, my high school girl friend; she has a girl friend with her, and I find myself unsurprised to discover that she’s a Lesbian. I think briefly about asking her to dance, but decide against it. Then I’m up in the bleachers, and talking with Milana and Mike; I don’t remember what we talk about, but I pull out a woven band that I made from my satchel; it’s very wide, and has a peacock brocaded on it as well as some other figures (fishes?). I pull the band taut to straighten out the brocade threads, which were buckling up from being folded. Then Mike and Milana are gone, and I’m watching the activity in front of the bleachers; it looks like somebody doing tricks with a small dragon, but I’m not sure if the dragon is a lizard or a bird. It’s the size of a large dog, and similar in build, but has lizard-like feet. I slip over the back of the bleachers, and climb down the lattice at the back; as I reach the bottom, I turn, look up, and with a flick of my wrist call my bag to me, and catch it as it falls. Now it is cream-colored and tall shaped, like something to carry a wine bottle in. There is somebody standing near me, and she remarks on my ability to transmigrate things; she says something about how it must be useful. I walk on, and now I’m on a college campus; someone is talking about the various things they could do if they had that skill of transmigrating things.

This part gets more and more disjointed. I’m not sure of order of these.

I’m feeling like I’m some sort of superhero or secret agent. I feel extremely confident, and as if I’ve got a lot of skills and abilities that people don’t know about. I’m watching as someone is doing a photo-shoot or some other modeling session with a young bald man who appears to be hurt – the person with him takes him into a bathroom on a break to change a dressing, and says something about “Are you sure you’re OK? You know there was fresh blood last time we changed this.” When they get into the bathroom, someone else is there – the bald boy’s jealous boyfriend? He proceeds to try to beat him up. I come in there, and fight with the boyfriend, and kill him. Then it’s as if I’m watching myself, as I’m doing some sort of recipe with corn; I think it is to dissolve the body. I am talking to someone about how all the fresh corn (I think I call it “sass corn”) will dissolve his brain from the inside, but I’m not sure if it will dissolve his skull.

Then I find myself walking with Chris through what looks like an art gallery. I need shoes; I find a pair of what look like soft mules, but they have wooden soles. They make my feet look funny and very small, and the wooden soles clack on the tile floor as we walk. Chris asks me repeatedly if I need something else – but they are comfortable, despite how funny looking and strange they are. I tell him, “I can tell you three things about these shoes – one, I sure won’t mind getting rid of them when we’re done with this; two, anyone with ears will hear us coming; and three, if I have to kill anybody with these on, they will almost certainly suspect it was you that did it.” I think that we’re on our way to meet up with the people who were doing the photography.

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