Dream #1 (pts. 3 and 4)
It is nighttime. We are walking toward the police station. Several of us are carrying boxes of Tom Waits’ stuff. It’s been decided: Tom is kicked out. I inquire as to why we are bringing his things to the police station, and I am told it’s because he has nowhere else to go. I assume that within the complex there is something like a Y, where he will be put up. The atmosphere is rather tense as we approach the station. The group distrusts the police. Apparently the feeling is mutual: there is a tall, barbed-wire fence surrounding the complex; flood lights; armed officers in full riot gear lurking within the perimeter. I, along with one other, hesitatingly approach the barred main entrance. My partner suggests we drop Tom’s boxes in front of the gate, run away. But that is a bad idea, I tell him, because the cops might think we’ve planted a bomb; they might shoot at us. As we wait at the gate, wondering what to do, we see the rest of our group walk through some invisible entrance and into the yard. Problem solved.... Now, as the group turns to leave, someone bumps into an old man--a renowned scientist and madman--who is also leaving the station. As the two of them converse, it becomes clear to me just who this old man is: He is one of Superman’s greatest enemies. The old man doesn’t mention it, but I know that he has come to the police station in order to deliver some sort of Trojan horse. He begins to talk about everything that he has learned. He has learned the Secret, he knows how to harness the power of the universe, Superman is doomed...everyone is doomed, etc. Suddenly the old man lifts himself off the ground, shoots into the sky in a brilliant flash of white light, leaving a trail behind him as if he were a falling star....
In a roomful of friends at the top of a building far, far away from the police station. Everyone is afraid: we sense that something awful is about to happen; we expect the end of the world. Everyone is sitting down, talking, doing their own thing. I am shuffling through some drawings of mine, admiring the work, surprised at how good it is. An overweight girl sitting across from me, who might be an old friend of my sister’s, asks me if I remember the time we went together to a school dance and I told everyone that she wasn’t my date. I think back on it, to my intentions, and let her know that it was probably in her best interest for me to do so. I say, apologetically, that I didn’t want to feel obligated to make her happy. Constant glances out the window. I feel a strange compulsion to say something to everyone in the room, to tell them I love them all; and so I do, but for some reason the words come out mumbled, and I wonder if anyone has actually understood a word I’ve I said. I stand up, walk over to the other side of the room. Most everyone is sitting on the floor, huddled together, talking in hushed tones, afraid. Just waiting. Many start to cry. I pick Superman out of the crowd. His head is hanging, he looks defeated. Now I am standing between friends (E.S. and M.C.). D.P. is sitting in a chair to my right, facing the other way, silently painting or drawing a picture of himself as he sits in a chair, painting or drawing a picture--all of this from the viewpoint of someone standing behind him. I nod approvingly. I can feel the fear increasing. More and more people begin to tear up. We know that the end is near. I look pityingly round the room; I look out the window, longingly. I cup a friend’s head in one arm, and I feel like he could be any one of several friends. Pulling the anonymous head close to my breast, I try to console him, to know him. Outside, faraway, something happens--an impact, an explosion--something tremendous and terrible. Now everyone is really crying, their eyes all full of tears, alternating between gazing out the window and burying their heads in their hands. I feel for them, yet I do not cry. There is no reason to be afraid, I know. I glance at D.P., see that he is still working on his picture; I look out the window: a shockwave is approaching, destroying everything in its path, leaving nothing in its wake. There is no reason to be afraid. I look round the room and off into space. In my mind I see my mother’s face. I hope that, wherever she is, she is OK (of course I know that, like everyone and everything else, she must be dead). Finally my eyes fill with tears, however briefly. There is no reason to be afraid, I know, I know. Constant glances out the window. Suddenly, somewhere not far off, the shockwave settles down. We are out of harm’s way. Then I make a joke I can’t remember.
In a roomful of friends at the top of a building far, far away from the police station. Everyone is afraid: we sense that something awful is about to happen; we expect the end of the world. Everyone is sitting down, talking, doing their own thing. I am shuffling through some drawings of mine, admiring the work, surprised at how good it is. An overweight girl sitting across from me, who might be an old friend of my sister’s, asks me if I remember the time we went together to a school dance and I told everyone that she wasn’t my date. I think back on it, to my intentions, and let her know that it was probably in her best interest for me to do so. I say, apologetically, that I didn’t want to feel obligated to make her happy. Constant glances out the window. I feel a strange compulsion to say something to everyone in the room, to tell them I love them all; and so I do, but for some reason the words come out mumbled, and I wonder if anyone has actually understood a word I’ve I said. I stand up, walk over to the other side of the room. Most everyone is sitting on the floor, huddled together, talking in hushed tones, afraid. Just waiting. Many start to cry. I pick Superman out of the crowd. His head is hanging, he looks defeated. Now I am standing between friends (E.S. and M.C.). D.P. is sitting in a chair to my right, facing the other way, silently painting or drawing a picture of himself as he sits in a chair, painting or drawing a picture--all of this from the viewpoint of someone standing behind him. I nod approvingly. I can feel the fear increasing. More and more people begin to tear up. We know that the end is near. I look pityingly round the room; I look out the window, longingly. I cup a friend’s head in one arm, and I feel like he could be any one of several friends. Pulling the anonymous head close to my breast, I try to console him, to know him. Outside, faraway, something happens--an impact, an explosion--something tremendous and terrible. Now everyone is really crying, their eyes all full of tears, alternating between gazing out the window and burying their heads in their hands. I feel for them, yet I do not cry. There is no reason to be afraid, I know. I glance at D.P., see that he is still working on his picture; I look out the window: a shockwave is approaching, destroying everything in its path, leaving nothing in its wake. There is no reason to be afraid. I look round the room and off into space. In my mind I see my mother’s face. I hope that, wherever she is, she is OK (of course I know that, like everyone and everything else, she must be dead). Finally my eyes fill with tears, however briefly. There is no reason to be afraid, I know, I know. Constant glances out the window. Suddenly, somewhere not far off, the shockwave settles down. We are out of harm’s way. Then I make a joke I can’t remember.