Dream

Debbie and I are visiting our condo in the mountainous country to the north of our city. There is various sorts of dream hugger-mugger that I can't recall; then we are driving in our SUV(*) along the dirt road that leads back to the highway. Away from the buildings, we stop to admire the scenery. "It's amazing," I say, "that all this belongs to us." Over there is the chalky cliff-face that is just perfect for use as a screen for outdoor showings of movies. We can invite our friends!

Rather than getting on the highway and driving home, we cross over to the other side, and more unremembered dream hugger-mugger takes place. Debbie has to drive home, and I want to stay behind. That's okay, because I can take the bus home -- the stop is right over there. Too bad the bus is leaving right now, and it could be a while before the next one comes along, this being the mountains and all. Oh, well. Deb goes home, and I stick around.

Still more unremembered hugger-mugger. Then I go to wait for the bus. I climb up the steep embankment to get to the highway, cross quickly in a gap in the traffic, and stand at the bus stop. Soon I am joined by my friend Sabyl Cohen, who is waiting for the same bus. We get to talking. "It's interesting," she says, "that when we come here, the locals think of us as tourists. That's so unusual." "I guess they don't think you are a tourist when you go to Las Vegas, then," I reply. "Certainly not!" says Sabyl (who in waking life is a professional poker player). In one of those unnoticed dream transitions, we are no longer at the bus stop but in the kitchen of a cabin with unfinished wooden walls, still talking.

There is a sound, and we look out the windows. An airplane is flying low overhead. It looks like a jet plane, a Boeing 737, but the engines sound like propellers rather than jets. It appears to be in trouble, circling to make an emergency landing in the smoothest place the pilot can find. The plane comes around and approaches an open space, a grassy meadow. Its passengers have crawled out and are dangling from the landing gear, and from the wings, in order to cushion the landing. As the plane comes to a halt, I leave the cabin by the front door and hurry down the stairs, to join the rescue work. Running up to the crash site I see that, miraculously, most of the passengers are unhurt, although here and there are a few with broken arms or legs. I join the quickly growing crowd of people gathering to help.

(*)Relax; we don't really drive SUVs in waking life. We don't have a condominium in the mountains, either.