Dreams 10/8-10/14/2003

10-8-2003

I'm talking to a soldier stationed in Iraq. "The thing is," he tells me, "the coffee here is the best I ever had." I'm holding a half-pound foil bag of whole beans. "It's from Gevalia," the soldier explains. "You only want to make a cup or two at a time, otherwise you have to share it with the whole platoon, and your ration is completely gone, just like that." I look at the trailer-home where the soldier's platoon is billeted. There are enough men living in the trailer that this half-pound bag of coffee would be used up at once.

10-9-2003

There's a strange sort of hostage situation in a multi-storey open building. We have been taken hostage by politically-motivated gunmen, and we basically support their cause. We're on their side, they are on ours. The building we are in is has no outside walls, just stone pillars supporting the floors above. The floors are arcades and galleries.

One of the other hostages, a slender woman with long, brown hair, has taken an interest in me, as I have in her. Every chance we get, when our captors aren't looking, we embrace, hugging and kissing. We are both intending to find a way we can have sex.

The police arrive, and warn the hostage-takers to release their captives. After warning them and getting no response, the police drive around the building in a jeep-like vehicle and cast a stream of material like shredded papier-maché into the air through a hose or cannon or blower or some such. I wonder whether this is supposed to release some sort of incapacitating gas, but it has no effect. The police seem impotent, in fact, unable to compel the hostage-takers to do anything.

Meanwhile my lady-friend and I are getting even more serious. She lies on the ground, and I climb on top of her, kissing her.

10-10-2003

I'm looking at myself in a mirror, examining my chin. It seems that I have a bald spot on my chin, my whiskers worn away by my habit of rubbing my chin. I notice specifically the smooth skin on the point of my chin, surrounded by a region of very short stubble. This bothers me, I want my beard to be full. I try to conceal the bald spot by combing it over with whiskers from higher up on my face.

10-11-2003

(1) I'm about to get inside a very small commercial jet aircraft – so small that the passenger entrance is a small hatch just behind the cockpit and right above one of the seats. There is a passenger already sitting in that seat, a caucasian man. He says something like "Surely you can squeeze your way in. ... yeah, I know, 'Don't call me Shirley!'" I step gingerly inside, standing on the armrest. "And don't call me Shirley," I repeat.

(2) I need to reprogram my mobile phone. Some of the speed dial settings have to be reset. I'm trying them out to see which ones are empty and which ones are currently programmed, and what numbers the programmed ones call. An interesting wrinkle is the "teleport" option – I can use the phone to dial a number and teleport me to the other end when the connection is made. Needless to say, doing this with an unfamiliar or wrong number can lead to embarrassment. I try some speed dial settings, and hang up when I get voice mail. I don't seem to be making any progress with the task.

10-12-2003

Dimly remembered fragment:

I'm crossing the Bay into San Francisco – on the Bay Bridge? On a boat? – and I can see the buildings appear to grow as I get closer. I notice in particular the Transamerica Pyramid.

I remember my mother and her death, and I'm filled with grief. I begin to weep. I cover my face in my hands, and bow my head.

I have an awareness that my grieving is right and proper, that I am doing myself good by letting it happen.

I look up again, self-possessed in my grief, and see the buildings of the city even nearer.