Dream: Making a Mess of Cake

Dream 20030714, 10:00 AM:

I’m with my family, although they are different people than my real family. We are driving along in either a horse-drawn wagon, or some kind of open-backed truck – I know that there is an open trailer in back with stuff in it. The part where we are sitting is open as well – kind of like a cross between a jeep and a truck. We go across a waterway on a bridge, and the Dad is talking about a rock that he made – we’re all surprised, because we didn’t think he made rocks. He explains that it has some engineering purpose, and it’s not really a rock, the rock just covers the piece of machinery he designed. He points it out in the riverbed. It does something like control the floodgates. He says something about how it’s made of “miss” – it looks like gray stone, but apparently it’s some kind of compound or resin. He says that he’s also made things out of copper and other metals.

Once on the other side of the water, the truck/wagon we’re driving in tips sideways, and the load is dislodged – it seems like it’s a tree cut up into big logs. We have to work really hard to get it back up into the bed of the truck. I think that we dump some of it into the water.

Then, we’re sitting around a dinner table. The Dad says something about how unfortunate it was that the load got tipped out of the truck. I am outraged; it was because of something he did, it wasn’t an accident. I tell him, “Don’t you dare pretend that wasn’t your fault.” I remember slamming my knife-handle down on the table, which was covered in a white cloth.

Then, I’m at what appears to be the beginning of a party. The house now kind of reminds me of Aunt M.’s house, but much older. The hostess is a woman who looks just like Sybil Sheppard as Martha Stewart. There is a cake, and I take a little piece of it and bite into it. It’s tasty, and I ask if it’s almond flour. She looks at me with a spiteful face, and says, “Oh, no… just regular flour. Warm.” She walks out the door. She knows I can’t have the regular flour, and had somehow set it up so I’d think it was OK to eat this cake; she was just doing it out of spite. I spit the cake all over the wall. Then, continue spitting on the silverware, which is arranged in a cup for guests. I run out of cake in my mouth, and I pick up a couple of pieces with my hands. I walk around the room, smearing them over pictures, pieces of furniture, and the walls. I walk out of the door, taking off my leather gardening gloves which are now covered in smashed cake and icing, and drop them on the ground with a huff.

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