To Flushing Station (Dreamtime)
I am slowly beginning to believe that I inhabit an alternate universe the minute my head hits the pillow at night. Certain themes repeat themselves over and over; certain characters turn up repeatedly and like any physical space or venue I am beginning to realize that it contains landmarks. St. Michael's Church, Wesleyan, Mommyland, Grandma and Grandpa's house, Aunt Tine's apartment - all fall within certain spatial relationships to each other.
And, two of the connecting rods are giant transportation hubs: One exists outside of my dreams and the other doesn't. The one that already exists is the Jamaica Station of the Long Island Railroad. In my dreams as well as in reality it is the fastest way to Mommyland and just about any other place I need to go. It is not always easy to navigate; the tracks and staircases leading to them are veritable labyrinths and are often the showcase for all sorts of travel anxiety.
The other focal point is either a total product of my imagination or really does exist on some astral plane or other. I call it Flushing Station.
Flushing Station is not to be confused with its actual counterpart in the real world, a station stop along the Long Island Railroad that runs between Manhattan and the North Shore. That one is a puny little thing that is largely hidden from public view behind crowded bins of passion and dragon fruits and greasy Chinese take-out joints.
The alternate version of Flushing Station lies just west of Jamaica Station and is its rival in almost every way: buses and subways wind their way around it and the tracks are housed in a building that rises above the street, resembling a large parking garage with waiting rooms and numbered decks.
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Unlike its counterpart, Flushing Station is often the departure point for someplace exotic, someplace outside of The City. For, unlike Jamaica Station, Flushing Station is near water and therefor has its own marina. That is where this morning's dream took place - at a kind of beach resort just outside of Flushing Station. Fro some reason, a lot of St. Michael's people were in this one: Richard and Peter were in it. And, Karla who I don't recall ever dreaming about before.
In this dream, Flushing Station seemed to double as a kind of hotel to which we had all retreated for the day. And, since it was near the beach, we were dressed accordingly, in bathing suits and flip flops. In fact, we were on our way to the beach when I begged Peter and Richard to wait for me while I took a shower. They waited in what looked like a souvenir shop while I located what I though was the men's rest room (in the dream, there such things as public showers), but, like many such episodes, finding the correct bathroom proved to be elusive. I was stripped naked and lathering up all my "naughty bits" when in walked Karla to tell me that I was in the Ladies Room - a rather large urinal a short distance away notwithstanding.
Karla was not embarrassed and said that I could fiish showering, but, I left anyway in search of the real men's room. There were signs pointing in all directions, but, as in most of my dreams, they were not to be trusted. When I finally did locate the correct room it was theend of the dream.
And, two of the connecting rods are giant transportation hubs: One exists outside of my dreams and the other doesn't. The one that already exists is the Jamaica Station of the Long Island Railroad. In my dreams as well as in reality it is the fastest way to Mommyland and just about any other place I need to go. It is not always easy to navigate; the tracks and staircases leading to them are veritable labyrinths and are often the showcase for all sorts of travel anxiety.
The other focal point is either a total product of my imagination or really does exist on some astral plane or other. I call it Flushing Station.
Flushing Station is not to be confused with its actual counterpart in the real world, a station stop along the Long Island Railroad that runs between Manhattan and the North Shore. That one is a puny little thing that is largely hidden from public view behind crowded bins of passion and dragon fruits and greasy Chinese take-out joints.
The alternate version of Flushing Station lies just west of Jamaica Station and is its rival in almost every way: buses and subways wind their way around it and the tracks are housed in a building that rises above the street, resembling a large parking garage with waiting rooms and numbered decks.
-
Unlike its counterpart, Flushing Station is often the departure point for someplace exotic, someplace outside of The City. For, unlike Jamaica Station, Flushing Station is near water and therefor has its own marina. That is where this morning's dream took place - at a kind of beach resort just outside of Flushing Station. Fro some reason, a lot of St. Michael's people were in this one: Richard and Peter were in it. And, Karla who I don't recall ever dreaming about before.
In this dream, Flushing Station seemed to double as a kind of hotel to which we had all retreated for the day. And, since it was near the beach, we were dressed accordingly, in bathing suits and flip flops. In fact, we were on our way to the beach when I begged Peter and Richard to wait for me while I took a shower. They waited in what looked like a souvenir shop while I located what I though was the men's rest room (in the dream, there such things as public showers), but, like many such episodes, finding the correct bathroom proved to be elusive. I was stripped naked and lathering up all my "naughty bits" when in walked Karla to tell me that I was in the Ladies Room - a rather large urinal a short distance away notwithstanding.
Karla was not embarrassed and said that I could fiish showering, but, I left anyway in search of the real men's room. There were signs pointing in all directions, but, as in most of my dreams, they were not to be trusted. When I finally did locate the correct room it was theend of the dream.