Dream 1
I may have seen or been in scenes in a movie. There may have been a first scene, in which a man was in some sort of dire situation. He may even have been in prison. But he was apparently writing something, a novel or a screenplay or a song, that would save him.
But the man needed some particular help in one passage of his creative work. It may have been that he needed his old teacher's help with the passage. Or he may have actually written a passage that his teacher would act in or sing.
The man may have been discussing all this with the woman, who was probably black, in a really small room, of which I may only have had an obscured, as if from the corner of a hallway and then through the doorway into the room.
The woman was now in a room with the teacher, an older, black man. The woman may have looked like Dorothy Dandridge. The teacher may have looked like Quincy Jones. The woman was discussing things with the teacher. The teacher was excited about all the ideas the man had. He gave his blessing to the man's work.
But the woman explained that the man actually needed the teacher in the work. The teacher reacted as if a little ashamed of not having understood what the woman had said before. He quickly said that that was okay.
Now my view shifted to me writing in a notebook a pink-covered spiral notebook, exactly like the one I'm currently using for my daily notes. I was lying on the floor on my stomach in some room like a living room, probably with a couch directly to my left, so close my left arm may have been rubbing against it.
The conversation between the woman and the teacher was still taking place, maybe just in my head. But now the conversation was about some passage of a novel or a story I was writing. The passage may have been about how a young man had written a song and then revised the song to make it even better. But I'd taken out a whole passage in the story where the young man's teacher had been convinced by a woman to help the young man out with a certain part of the song.
In the conversation in my head, the teacher told the woman that he'd liked this entire segment of the story -- kind of in three passages: the passage where the young man made the song, the passage where the teacher got involved, and the passage where it became clear that this song was really good.
The teacher said that he was happy helping, but that it was also important that I keep the second passage. He told the woman he knew I had taken out the passage because I was worried that I hadn't edited things down enough. But he said the passage was really good.
I may have been writing everything I was hearing in my notebook. Or I may have been writing notes on the story as I was kind of making a strategy for my writing or editing process. Or I may have been writing this very part of the novel or maybe a part more toward the end of the novel.
But I now realized that I needed to go back and put the second passage of this segment of the story back in. I was kind of relieved at that. I'd really liked that part of the story. But I also wasn't quite sure how I'd be able to find the passage in my notebook and then get everything back in order -- even though I'm pretty sure I was also directly looking at that part in my notebook already.
I was caught up by my mom, who was now sitting up on the couch. Something about her presence put a stop to everything for me. She couldn't know about my writing. She may have been part of some group of authorities who were kind of waiting to see whether I'd write something like this, so they could stop me.
I may have tried to tell my mom I was writing something else. I may have tried to explain this other thing I was writing. But my language may have trailed off. I was really just trying to shake my mom out of my mind so I could get re-focused on my work. But it may have gotten harder and harder as I tried to keep both things in my head to keep track of what was actually happening in my notebook and how I was supposed to rearrange the story to get it back into its good, original order.
There was now some conversation going on on the couch. My mom may still have been there, though as some other person, or she may no longer have been there at all, and a young woman may have been in her place. There were two other people: at least one guy, and maybe one other woman, but maybe one other man. The three people were office workers. This living room with its couch was like their office.
The office workers were complaining about some guy downstairs. The guy may have been a person in another office, in another business. But the people had to deal with him a lot. They didn't like him because he was kind of boisterously nasty, always seeming to get some sort of giddy pleasure out of showing up the office workers. He was often right about the things he said, too, which made the office workers like him even less. I saw the guy in my head: kind of tall and rangy, with olive skin and a close-shaved flat-top of tightly-curled hair. He may have worn a clunky, tan polo shirt.
The office workers were currently really annoyed by something the man had just said. The office workers all knew the man would end up being right. But he'd issued his statement as a bit of a challenge to the office workers. It was also said in a way that shamed the office workers a bit, like they knew they should be doing something about what the man had been talking about, but they really didn't want to. The man may even have said that the office workers were talking to someone they knew they shouldn't have been talking to. And even though they knew this was true, his saying it just made them even more annoyed.
I wasn't a part of this conversation. I was, apparently, one of the office workers. But I was treated like I wasn't a part of their little group. I may have been treated like I wasn't even a part of the company most of the time. I may have been treated like I was just a little kid, or even like I was someone who wasn't wanted around at all.
However, even though I was basically disregarded by my coworkers and was maybe not even wanted around, I still started feeling a little weird and guilty as I listened to them speaking about the man downstairs. I knew how annoying the man could be. But I also knew that we all probably needed to respect some of the things he said a little bit more. But I was guilty feeling this way. I knew my coworkers would feel I was betraying them if they ever knew I had these feelings.
I was now downstairs, all the way on the ground floor of the office building. On the ground floor was a deli-like restaurant. But the seating area for this deli was a lot more like a kind of big casual dining restaurant, like an old Bennigan's or Chili's. But, surrounded by this huge seating area was the deli counter.
The annoying man was working behind the counter. Apparently he owned the deli or was just one of the deli workers. I'd come down here to deliver something or pick something up, like I was performing the duties of the mail room person for my office. There may have been a sense that people were actually trying to get me to do these duties more and more so they could actually take away my current job and throw me into the mail room full-time.
I'd made whatever exchange I was supposed to make with the deli man. I was probably sitting on a bar stool, making small talk with the man. The deli was completely empty. A TV may have been on over the deli counter. The deli man was just doing stuff behind the counter like cleaning up.
The deli man had asked a question. I casually responded in a way that let the man know that the office workers had been annoyed by some of the stuff he'd said. The man acknowledged what I'd said and took a little bit of snide pleasure in my coworkers' annoyance.
But then he got a little more serious. He tried to make the point again that what he'd told the office workers was true and that it should be listened to. He somehow conveyed to me that he thought I was different. He was hoping that by speaking to me a bit more honestly and seriously he could drive the point home that the office workers really needed to think about this stuff.
But I could sense that the man had also sort of given up on the office workers. I could also sense that the man was sort of hoping that he could entice me to come work for him instead of them. But I was doing my best not to convey any sort of interest in working for the man. I was already dumped on enough working with the office workers. I didn't want to imagine what people would start doing to me if I went back to some position like working in a deli.
I had only come down to make whatever exchange I had made with the deli man because it was lunchtime and I was on my way out of the building. I told the man I had to get going so I could grab some lunch.
Then I realized how insensitive what I'd said had been. The deli had no customers at all. I could tell that the deli man was even expecting to have no customers over the course of the day. The deli man was getting less and less business all the time. And now I'd come here just to make some exchange, and not even to buy anything? It seemed mean of me. And I didn't want the deli man to think poorly of me. So I decided I'd get a couple small things and then find some other place to get the rest of my food.
But I already had two hot dog buns in my hands. I had actually already eaten half of one of the buns. I looked sort of back and over my shoulder, into some bag, maybe even a bunchy, black, leather purse I was carrying. In the purse was an entire thing of salami and an entire block of cheddar cheese. There may even have been an entire, unopened jar of Dijon mustard in my purse!
So now I realized I had enough food that I could just get a couple more items from the deli and then just walk somewhere outside, like a park or something, to eat my lunch. That way I could just get a couple things from here, make the guy feel good because I bought something from him, and not risk having the guy hear that I'd gotten food from some other restaurant as well.
I asked the guy for a bottle of soda. I would also get a cookie out of a box atop the glass display case -- which was now really tall, so that I'd had to reach up really high to grab the cookie! As the guy walked away to grab the soda, I calculated that I'd pay $5.86 for everything. That, I thought, was a good amount for the time I'd spent in the deli.
I grabbed the cookie. The cookie was wide and flat, probably a sort of chewy cookie, wrapped in a clear wrapper. But the front of the wrapper said something I found disgusting, like some sort of beef-based meal or something. At first I thought that meant the cookie was flavored like some kind of beef-based meal. I obviously didn't want that. I fumbled to see the next cookie. It also had some kind of meal label, like split-pea soup or something.
I didn't want a cookie that tasted like beef or split-pea soup. But I also felt like, at this point, I just had to grab what I'd ordered and leave. However, I then realized that the label on the package meant what kind of food should be eaten with the cookie. It was like a food pairing suggestion. I could see (maybe even somehow taste) that the cookie in the beef-meal package was a lemon-flavored cookie. I knew I'd like that a lot.
I left the deli. I walked outside and into the dark night. I looked back at the door of the office building (and deli). It was now like I was looking at the display window of a cheap electronics store, like the kind in Times Square (if they still exist). There was an old neon sign advertising the old, clunky electronics.
I may have tried to figure out where the heck I was for a second. The street was on a slope, at the bottom of which was the electronics shop. So I was pretty sure I was in San Francisco.
I had a strange sense of déjà vu. It was like I had been here, instead of with the office workers, earlier in my dream (or my experience, or whatever I called it while I was dreaming). I had walked down the sidewalk and toward this door, I vaguely remembered. And now I was coming out.
I felt like something about my professional destiny had to do with this clunky electronics shop. Maybe I was trying to get a job here. But I also felt like the electronics shop actually still was a restaurant and that I had gotten my meal, and maybe even had a job interview, there. But I'm pretty sure I also still had to go find a restaurant where I could get my lunch. But I probably also wanted to do this stealthily, so I could avoid the deli man finding out where I'd gotten my lunch. And I probably also still already had all my food for lunch and was just looking for a place to eat.
I was right on the corner of the street. So I crossed the sidewalk. At first it may have been like nobody was around. But now there were a lot of people crossing the street. It was pitch black. There were no streetlights. Maybe there weren't even any stoplights, though everybody seemed to be crossing the street as if following a streetlight.
Off in the dark distance I could see or sense a small park. I really didn't want to eat at the park. I didn't really want to eat my food at all. I felt it was too heavy and too random. It wasn't a healthy meal. And I was trying not to gain any more weight. But I also didn't want to go to a park to eat. I knew that as soon as I sat down a flock of annoying people would gather all around me and make my eating experience hellish. But I didn't know what else I could do. I knew I had to go to the park to eat.
I kind of suddenly had a positive attitude about everything. I probably wouldn't have any trouble at all once I got to the park. Maybe there wouldn't even be anybody at the park.
I was still walking across the street. For some reason I looked back over my shoulder. A group of older white people were leisurely riding their bikes across the street. One of the men in the group dropped his scarf on the white lines of the crosswalk.
I tried to call out for the man. But I couldn't do so quickly enough. So I grabbed the scarf off the ground. I looked over to my left and saw a young, white man watching me. I didn't want the young man to think I was stealing the scarf. So, looking at the young man, and still not able to articulate myself, I pointed in the direction of the old man.
The young man smiled and nodded knowingly at me. He then kind of looked up and toward the old man. He may have made some random noise to call out to the man. At this point I got a little more control over my own voice, at least enough to say something simple like, "Hey! Hey!"
At this point it was like the young man was more in control of the situation than I. But I didn't want it that way, because I wasn't sure the young man wasn't going to try and make it look after all like I had tried to steal the old man's scarf.
At this point we were all crossing the street all weird, like we had made it from one corner to the next, but like we were all now crossing across and along the street to our right, so that we were still in the middle of the street, though we were probably also about halfway up the block. At this point we wouldn't reach the other sidewalk until we were at its far corner. And everybody was going this way. We were all one long flow of people on this dark road.
The old man and probably his biking mates had stopped and turned around. I could still barely control my speech. But the old man understood me well enough. He laughed and said something about dropping his scarf -- not like dropping his scarf was something he always did, but more like randomly doing things to oblige the people around him in public situations to sort of clean up his messes or take care of him. At least one of his biking mates, an older, white woman, laughed about this and said it was true.
The young man was still there -- though, now that he had seen how the old man was interacting with me, he'd kind of shied away from the situation at present.
The bikers all pedaled slowly away. I was sort of proud of how I'd dealt with that situation. I may have projected to myself how I could handle things to my advantage in my professional life based on how I'd handled that situation. I may even have thought that the old man himself might offer me a job in the future.
But now the young man was back. I knew there was now a new reason I had to prove my innocence to him. He may have been speaking to me a little, trying to pry information out of me. I may have started telling him something, trying to sound philosophical about the ins and outs of social and professional life. But I may also have been trying to speak in a clear enough way to prove my innocence to the young man, while also in a humble enough way to make it clear to the young man that the old man would never try to give me any sort of professional position that the young man would want.
I probably knew by this time that the park I would have to eat my lunch at was just a bit off in the dark distance, possibly just across the street,(though caddycorner from where I and all these people would end up after we'd reached the corner we were aiming for). I was hoping that by that time I'd be able to shake off this young man so he wouldn't stick around me and annoy me with his insinuations of my guilt the entire time I was eating.
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