Dream 20030828, 5:45 AM:
I’m not sure whether I woke up between these two sections, or not. They seemed to be separate dreams, but since they tie together, I’m putting them in one entry. A particular image from the first one showed up in my lucid dream from later this morning, which was kinda cool.
Chris and I are walking along a hillside; it’s got a higher level about ten to twenty feet above, like we’re in a wash or gulley, but there’s not any indication of water. It may just be a geological stratum.
I see a passion flower vine, and I’m excited – it looks like it’s in fruit. It starts out on the hillside where we’re walking, and goes upward. I pull it down, reeling it in hand over hand, until it is piled up in front of me. I pick the fruits from it, and put them in my pockets.
We hear a loud noise from below; it sounds like a group of people in a brawl. It moves closer, and I look down the hill, and see a bunch of guys fighting. There is a pleasant-looking dark-skinned old black man walking nearby us, and he kind of watches us from a little distance, smiling. The noise below gets more and more aggressive, and I look at the tree roots projecting from the enbankment above me and begin to climb upward. It’s kind of like how the tangled roots look when the dirt has washed out of them beside a river or creek. I call to Chris, telling him we need to get up and out of sight. He finally joins me, and I remember the physical sensation of climbing up into the tree, which was effective but not very graceful. I had to kind of hug it and throw my foot up and scrabble for purchase. I hear the guys fighting below, and then their voices start to chant, “Kill! Kill! Kill” and I’m glad we’ve moved out of their way.
Once on top of the tree, we are out of harm’s way, and completely exhausted. We both fall asleep. I wake up (within the dream) with a start, and look around, to find myself still up on top of the tree projecting from the hillside, and the black man is now up closer to where we are, still watching smilingly. He seems serene. He doesn’t bother me, although I wonder why he watched us sleep.
I’m on a rocky sandbar beside a creek, quite a lot like some of the places I used to go near my Grandparent’s house in the woods. There are two people here with me; one of them seems to be my friend M. from college, but also reminds me of another college girlfriend C. There is a man here, who also seems to be two people, my partner Chris and my brother R. I am picking up things – rocks, interesting bits of flotsam – and putting them into a bag to carry home. I pick up a pretty white piece of rock, but turn it in my hand and realize it’s plastic, and put it back on the ground. I find a small boom-box, and put that in the bag.
Then, I’m at the up-stream end of the sandbar, and looking down at the ground, find a really beautiful rock; it’s colored like pink granite, but shaped like a large quartz point. I turn it in my hand a few times, then notice another one, which has more rocks stuck to its plane sides by pieces of clear crystal. I look in the same little section of sand and rocks, and there are a bunch of containers, made out of glass and stones, half-buried in the ground; I pick them up, one at a time. I remember looking at one, trying to figure out how its hexagonal lid goes on. It reminds me of depression glass, but more of a smoky green, and slicker looking. I tell M. that some of these would make a nice present for her parents; she replies that yes, as long as they’re the simple ones, because the fancy ones wouldn’t fit their taste.
As we keep looking at these things, I realize that there’s a short book shelf here, with stuff in it. We go through it, and it seems like it’s all stuff of ours, and we’re deciding what to keep and what to leave behind. I roll out a piece of rust-orange woven cloth, and tell M. that it would fit with her stuff; I comment that it needs hemming, but that should be easy. She reads a label, and declares that although it looks like linen, it’s made from textile rubber. I look at a stack of papers, which look mostly like envelopes and old bills and statements, and I ask whether I ought to take those with me, or just control them from home. I pick up some towels, and we talk about them a little – they have printed designs, and are all old ones from when I used to go to the pool as a child.
Then, without any transition, I’m standing in the utility room of my parents’ house, talking to my Mom across an ironing board. I’m still holding one towel, and I think she’s ironing one of the other ones.