Dream: The Peacock Feather Sky and the Black Bourtade

Dream 20030220, 6:50 AM:

I am with family members; I think it’s Mom and Dad, but they shift some through the dream, and it seems like it’s friends of mine instead. At a couple of points, it almsot seems like it’s Grandmother and Granddad. We arrive at our house, which is not any house I’ve known; it reminds me somewhat of Kathy’s house in Kingwood. I have been driving the car with everyone inside, and when I get out, I am making a journal of sorts, writing on clear pieces of plastic that look like very thin plexiglas. I am using a marker of some sort. I am describing the energy of driving, and how exciting it was – it seems like I’m very excited about it. I am sitting down on the driveway to write, or there may be a short bench beside the garage.

Then, we’re inside the house, and I’m talking with Mom about having someone over for dinner; it is some friend of Dad’s (or Granddad’s?) and her husband. There is some discussion about whether we should be having them over. People are walking back and forth; I think Mom is getting dinner ready.

Then, we’re hosting a party. There are lots of people here. I am sitting on a back porch with a rail; it reminds me somewhat of Hal’s deck, but it also somehow reminds me of Grandma’s house. There are several people sitting out here. I look up at the sky, and there is a big dark band of cloud with brilliant stars in a pattern that looks like peacock feathers. It reminds me of the velvets that have the sparkling glitter on them in a pattern. Several of my friends are here as well, and I point it out to Christina, but make a point of *not* pointing it out to Deborah, who would appreciate it. I look at a big tree behind where I’m sitting, and the branches are peacock feathers too, waving in the breeze. I have a feeling of awe at the exceptional beauty of these things. I feel like I’m being petty by not pointing them out to Deborah, but I also feel like she’s hurt my feelings and I don’t want to tell her. Then, the wind blows through the clouds, and the peacock feathers are all gone.

I walk inside. There are sheets of fabric stretched from floor to ceiling, dividing the rooms up into smaller spaces; it seems like it was set up this way just for the party. Mark P. is here, and he says something about a guy at the party who is cute. He hands me an object (or did I pick it up?) that is about the size of a small juice glass, with portions which rotate; it has pictures and letters on it. There are probably a dozen or so photos on it, all small. I look at a couple of the pictures which are of John L., and one of them has a caption under it, “Black Bourtade.” One of the shots he is just looking at the camera, one he is looking to the side wearing a low brimless leather hat. I don’t have any sense of knowing what the caption means. There are individual letters on a white section of the picture tube, and I swivel some of the parts back and forth, trying to see if they will form a word, but I can’t get them to do it. A tall, dark-haired man walks by pulling a bathrobe up onto his shoulders; Mark says that he’s cute too. *end*

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