Dream: Your Type Can Get Casted
Dream 20040112, 1:00 AM:
I’m at a place, the details aren’t clear any more – but it seems that I sit on the ground and dabble my hands in shallow water. Chris’s friend C. is here with me. We are talking as I dabble my hands, and then I catch my finger on something painful. I pull it up, and I have a bandaid on that finger already, but I can see that right at the edge of the bandaid, I have a shard of shiny glass or metal embedded in the flesh. I wrap my bleeding finger in some gauze, and walk up to a counter – it reminds me of a counter at a skating rink, or a Dairy Queen – and ask for first aid supplies to bandage myself up. I tell the lady I need some forceps, some gauze, a bandage and a blanket. I realize what I just said, and tell her I don’t need a blanket, I don’t know why I said that. She hands me the stuff, and takes a piece of gauze and pushes it over my finger, and I walk away.
Then, I’m in a bunk-like bed which is behind a tiny separate door; it’s a space the size of a large closet, with just the bed which is built into it. C. is here as well; I don’t know why we’re hanging out together. I work on my fingertip; the glass is a tiny thorn-shaped piece of clear glass, but it’s very deep, and has sliced a very large cut in my fingertip. I can see the layers of fat and skin and muscle, but it’s not terribly painful. I press on either side of the wound, and the glass pops out, and I bandage it up. I walk down the hall to a bathroom, and the floor is soaked. The house now kind of reminds me of my grandparents’ house in the woods. The water on the floor isn’t deep, but I notice that it’s running in at one corner; I holler for my Grandmother, and when she doesn’t come in, I go into the room where she is working and explain to her that the hallway and the bathroom are flooded with water. I go back in, and trace the trickle back to a showerhead which is dripping. I turn it off, then go and find my brother, R., who was lying down in one of the bedrooms. I ask him if he had used the shower to fill his waterbed, and he confirmed that he had, and I told him he has a mess to clean up. I go back to bed, as if I’ve made it his problem and not mine now.
C. is there, in a pretty white cotton night-gown. She has taken some kind of sleeping medicine which makes her feel all happy and unconcerned, and she’s talking about the way it makes her feel. Apparently it’s new, she hasn’t taken it before. I try to arrange the space for us to sleep, and there is a contraption shaped like a double-decker ironing board which divides the bed up into two sleeping spaces, one above the other. She takes the top part, and I try to get comfortable on the lower part, but the ironing board thing is very stiff and not soft enough for me to lie on my shoulder. I toss and turn a little.
I don’t remember the transition. The next thing I can remember, I’m riding in some sort of car or van. It almost seems like we’re on a tour; there are several people sitting together in the back seats. I’m talking with another guy in a seat next to mine. We drive past a field with several large sculptures. The sculptures are amazing looking. They are somewhat primitive, look like dark, almost black bronze or clay, and each one is in a large red mound of earth shaped like an anthill. The color of the earth is iron-oxide clay red. Some of the sculptures are more buried than others, some are nearly bare, as if they are more weathered. Many of the sculptures are of couples entertwined; it has a very Western look, so I can’t really say Kama Sutra, but very complicated entwined poses. They look sexual, but not overt; the figures are male and female, both muscular but not entirely defined. They remind me of some of Rodin’s roughs. As we’re looking at this, we see a wooden slat-sided cart, like something Amish people would use for haying, go by in the opposite direction. It’s pulled by two oxen or horses. In the back, a man and a woman are wrapped in an intimate embrace, not moving. His back is to us. I point to them, and the guy sitting next to me says, “Yeah, he’s hot!” The guy is pale-skinned, muscular and heavily tattooed with blue designs. I look at them, and past them to the sculptures in the field, and excitedly explain, “That’s THEM! They’re those people! I bet they sculpt them from themselves. If you look at it, it’s got to be some kind of lost-wax process; the red mounds are part of the pouring. I wonder if they’re using bronze – can you imagine what it would cost? Bronze isn’t cheap, even if they’re making their own…” It seems like this must be a personal project, a labor of love, because the sculptures are out in the absolute middle of nowhere, and they don’t look like they’re selling any of them. As we ride on, we see more and more of the sculptures. Some of them are huge groupings of people, some include structures or groups engaged in events. One looks half-done, like some of the people are built of straw and mud. I stare at it as we go past, trying to figure out the process.
Then, I’m in a house again; it’s somewhat like the house from before, but now there are several different people in it. There is one man here who’s hiding; he manages it by coming out and doing everything at different times. The guy who owns the house realizes that he’s here, but if anyone else found out, there would be a huge disaster – like he would get killed, or his project undermined or something. It seems very tense, almost like a suspense film. I watch several different scenes of this activity – the man crosses the house when the other guys are showering, or goes and does something while one of them is looking the other way. There is a man here who reminds me of an adult movie actor named Jake; he is dressed like a lumberjack in a white thermal undershirt and jeans, and he comes to the house to unlock something. He tells the guys that he can let them into the room they’re wanting into, but they’re really not supposed to go in there.
Then, there’s an inspector. He comes to the house to check up on something. He seems to notice that there’s something amiss, and keeps trying to catch a glimpse of the hiding guy – looking in mirrors, watching doorways. He doesn’t, although until the point where he leaves, he looks suspicious and alert.
Then, while one of the other guys is showering, the hiding man is too, in a different bathroom. He looks like a young Michael J. Fox, although he is a little more average looking. He is small, and has longish hair like MJF had when he was young. He walks through the house from the shower to his room. One of the other guys, who resembles the hiding guy a lot, walks through the house, and seems to mentally count people and realize that there’s somebody moving where there shouldn’t be. He walks down the hallway, and sees the hiding guy getting ready at a bathroom mirror. He says the hiding guy’s name, which is something Russian sounding like Mendelev, and says, in a kind of sad-but-resigned voice, “I mean this in the nicest way possible… but your type… can get casted.” It seems like he’s referring to something about the way the guy looks, and it seems to be backed up by the fact that he looks so similar. They look like they could be brothers, but not twins; they have similar small frames and the same longish sandy hair.
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