Dream 1
I may have been in a suburban neighborhood in the daytime. I may have been dropped off here by someone, possibly my brother or another family member. The street I was walking down may have been level, but it may also have been at the crest of a steep slope of blocks and blocks of residential houses.
I may have been imagining some sort of conversation I would have with someone about an airplane flight I'd taken. I may just have been dropped off from this airplane flight. Some people had thought that the flight or the plane wasn't very good. But I thought it was, and I was imagining a conversation about why I'd thought it was good. My brother had possibly been the pilot.
I had walked clockwise down one block and then another. I'd ended up in something like a wooded park. I turned right and started walking down a path.
I was still imagining the conversation. But now I had to run. Apparently the plane was waiting for me. I had to catch it before it left. My mother was probably running beside me. We ran down a wide, gully-like path.
The airplane -- a big, silvery plane like from World War II -- was somewhere. Then we were on the plane. I was in the hollowed-out back area, which had no windows. My mom was probably up front, in the pilot's cabin, probably with my brother, who was flying the plane. I was still imagining the conversation I would have with people who didn't think this flight or plane was good.
We lifted up into the air. But it was also still somehow like I wasn't on the plane yet -- maybe even like I hadn't decided whether I wanted to be on the plane.
I could see somehow that the plane's propellers -- this was a prop plane -- were having some kind of trouble.
Some part of my vision was now up in the pilot's cabin. Somehow my brother made it known that some sort of tubes that went to the propellers were either out of or very low on oil. This sounded kind of scary to me at first. But then my brother made it known that there was enough oil remaining to get us to wherever we were headed, but that after we got there, we'd definitely need to put more oil in.
I was still in the windowless back part of the plane. But I could see, either through the windows of the pilot's cabin or from some point of view outside the plane, that we'd lifted up over a tall hill in the park.
I still wasn't sure I wanted to be on this flight. But I knew we were already on our way. So I couldn't get off the plane. But I reassured myself, and the people I was having a conversation with in my head, that everything would be okay. I felt like the oil situation had been monitored well.
Dream 2
I had probably posted something on Twitter about some event, maybe some kind of pop culture convention. I'd probably posted a few tweets about how I was excited for the event or how I had really enjoyed the event. I'd probably then posted a tweet that was just a quote, or my paraphrase of a quote, from one of the people who ran the event, possibly the top person in charge of the event.
The person I'd tweeted about, however, was really angry about my tweet. I imagined the person as a white man, bald on the top of his head, but possibly with long, white hair on the sides of his head and a grey mustache that flowed down into a long, white beard.
I read the man's reactions to my tweet and could feel the anger coming from the man. The man felt I'd misquoted him or totally misrepresented him somehow. He told me I should delete all the tweets related to him and his event. He then implied he was even going to try and get my account deleted.
I was now out on a soccer field during the daytime. A game was going on, probably between teenage boys. But it was way off in the distance, and the boys were all so close to the far goal, so they seemed even farther away. Yet at other times it felt like they were pretty close to me.
I may have been trying to get closer to the game -- not to play, but just to see how it was progressing. But I may also have felt unwelcome in the game. And I also may have felt like the angry man was in charge of the game or playing in the game. So I really didn't want to get too close.
The man's Twitter tirade continued during all of this. Somehow the man had started direct messaging me on Twitter. I may have thought this was weird. I was pretty sure he and I were not following each other.
But the man had also managed to connect our conversation with some young woman who was some head person over at Twitter. This three-way conversation probably took place via direct messaging, though it also seemed to take place over the public Twitter feed.
The man was basically trying to get Twitter to delete my account. The woman was sort of defending me. She couldn't see exactly what I'd done wrong. I hadn't misrepresented the man. I'd quoted him directly. She could sort of see that.
But then the woman responded to the man that a lot of times people on Twitter get super-excited about things and post a lot of tweets about whatever they're excited about. The woman was basically implying that I had posted too many tweets about the event, and that the volume of tweets was getting the man all confused, so that it was sort of understandable that the man would eventually feel misrepresented by my statements.
I felt like the woman was actually still trying to defend me. At the very least, she was trying to get the angry man to back off, simply because she found it annoying that he was trying to make sure shut down someone's account. Nevertheless, it was also clear that the woman wasn't on my side, even if she was defending me, and that she -- and possibly even all of Twitter -- found it annoying that I was posting so much about so many things.
I felt like the woman was already starting to be on the fence about whether she should shut down my Twitter account. I had a feeling that the only reason she hadn't already decided to shut down my Twitter account was because she didn't actually know me -- she couldn't actually see me. If she could actually see me, she'd most likely dislike me and firmly decide to shut my account down.
I was now close to a soccer goal. I didn't see any players. But I could probably feel their presence somewhere around me.
I felt like I needed to make a case for myself, to prove that I had not misrepresented the man, that I hadn't even posted very many tweets about the man's event, and that the tweets I'd posted had all been fact-based -- nothing editorial or based on my own opinions or emotions.
I wasn't looking at my phone at all. But somehow, out walking on the soccer field, I was searching for my tweets about the man's event. I couldn't find them. There was some reason for this -- possibly that I'd posted too many other tweets, so that it was now impossible for me to find these specific tweets; or possibly that the man's event had, after all, been so obscure and ill-attended-to, that it was nearly impossible to find any news about it, including my own tweets.
I was in some black room -- possibly a bedroom (or a baby's nursery, but with adult beds in it, too?), possibly my own bedroom, or possibly a bedroom that had been my bedroom but was now partly vacated, as I'd moved out of this bedroom but was still getting stuff out of it. I was lying on a bed. I may have been looking at my phone at first. But now I'd slung the hand my phone was in up over my head and off the edge of the bed.
I may have found enough tweets to prove to the woman that I'd only tweeted a few fact-based tweets about the man's event. But I may still have been uncertain about tweeting these tweets to the woman.
I was probably now on the floor in the room, laying on my stomach or sitting up in some lazy style. I may have been looking at my phone now. But whatever I was looking at was really hard to see and read. I started feeling like maybe the tweets I'd pulled up were really bad examples of whatever I was trying to prove to the woman. I hesitated about sending the tweets. I knew if they weren't good, the woman would get fed up with me once and for all and decide to delete my account like the angry man had told her to.
Dream 3
I was in some sort of official public space. I was in a kind of big room that was full of people. Earlier on I may have been near a food truck. The food truck may have been outside. But it may also have been in this room. While I was at the food truck I may have seen the president of my city council. I may have gotten what I'd needed from the food truck then turned away.
I was now at a doorway out of the room and into another big, full room. My view may have been partly obscured by the doorway.
My city council president walked up to me. He was angry. He pointed his finger at my chest and told me either that I'd said something to offend him or that I'd offended him by not doing something he'd needed me to do.
I told the president that I hadn't done whatever he'd thought I'd done. It was pretty obvious to me that I hadn't. I just needed to point out the obvious to him. But he wouldn't believe me.
He may now have been gone. I still felt like it would be pretty easy to convince him that I hadn't done what he'd thought I'd done. But as I tried, I found it harder and harder to remember the exact evidence that I actually only done good things for him. This may have gotten more and more frustrating to me, as I may possibly have felt that I couldn't actually move from one room to the next without feeling confident that I could present this evidence to the city council president.
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