Dream 20030731, 6:00 AM:
Chris and I are walking down an alley with a grocery store shopping cart. It doesn’t feel like we’re homeless or anything like that – just happen to have a cart with us. The alley is grown up with weeds and plants, but seems homely and ‘lived-in’ – it seems almost more like a grassed road, than an alleyway.
We walk past a building, and see that they’re setting out a bunch of little wooden boxes, like they’re going to be throwing them away. I look at them, and realize that they’re little wooden chests full of sealing wax. A man comes out, bringing another load of the little chests. I ask him what they’re doing with them, and he explains that they’re throwing them away. I ask if I can have them, and he says yes. I start piling them into the cart. I pick up a couple of small inkle looms with them, but Chris realizes they don’t belong with the chests, and puts them back. I have the cart fairly full of the little boxes, and am enjoying looking at all the details on the boxes, and the different colored sticks of sealing wax. I open up one kind of rounded-triangle shaped box, which looks like it’s made of leather. It is filled with fine brown pellets, almost a powder, but a little more grainy, like yeast. There is a ceramic thing inside, and I pull it out, realizing that it’s a pounce sifter, to dry letters that have been written with dip ink. I show it to Chris, and then put it back in the cart.
A woman comes out of the building, and I ask her if they discard this stuff on any kind of a regular schedule, so that I could come and get more. She asks what I plan to do with the boxes; I explain that I make soaps and toiletries, and would use the boxes as packaging. She seems satisfied with that explanation. She explains that they don’t really have a schedule, they just get rid of them from time to time.
Then, Chris and I are walking onward. I don’t remember having the cart with us, but I also don’t remember doing anything with it. He starts picking up sticks from the side of the path, and throwing them hard at me. He has changed; now, he is taller, skinny, and dark-skinned, although no particular ethnic look. He is saying something, and I don’t remember the words, as he throws the sticks at me. I am catching them or dodging them, or knocking them aside with another stick, so that they don’t hurt me, but it’s annoying me and kind of freaking me out that he keeps pitching them. He keeps explaining that it’s my fault somehow, that I shouldn’t have started with the sticks in the first place.
I don’t remember a resolution, but the stick-throwing ends, and we find ourselves wandering through a buildling. It seems like the back end of a church or community center; lots of bland rooms, big double doors, but nothing particular as far as decorative scheme. We go through a couple of the doors, down some hallways. The staff are trying to lock up the building, and we know that we ought to get out, but somehow we get locked into one of the rooms. The woman locking the door gives us an annoyed look, like we’ve messed up the routine, and will be stuck here now. As the doors lock, an eerie wailing starts up, and I tell Chris something about how there are ghosts of children in here. The wailing is intense now, and very creepy, and I wake up. *end*