So, I rarely remember dreams. It’s always bothered me, but this morning I woke from such vivid dream, I had to document it and share.
It seems as though Sharon, I, and the kids moved to Boston. We’d found a lovely run down mansion on Boylston street. It was built in the 1920s with flapper-era pink and dusty blue coated plaster walls and hardwood floors, but very poorly taken care of. The walls were chipping and some of the lattice was showing The floors were stained, splintered and rolling from room to room. Where the walls and the floors were supposed to meet was a gap, about 5 inches tall. Yes … Poorly taken care of for Boylston Street.
In the next segment of the dream, we lived in a different house, across the street and down from the one we’d originally moved to. it was Spanish in design and quite lovely.
Now for my friends that have never been down Boylston Street, this is odd. Boylston is a very vertical, crowded line of buildings with businesses and shops connected at the shoulders. It’s the street where the Boston marathon bombing took place, so if you remember the coverage, you certainly didn’t see 20’s-era mansions or Spanish villas. But hey, it’s my dream, so deal with it.
And the weirdness takes a step up…
While Sharon and I were relaxing in our Spanish veranda, our across-the-street neighbor, a lovely dark-haired lady, came rushing over in a panic. “They’re going to take everything away from me” she said, breathless, “All the trash bags … it’s too much. They’re going to take it all!” I tried to calm her down and try to get the full story, but it was more panicked and high pitched pleading – something about the neighborhood association and the inability to care for her property.
We all rushed over to her place where the clean up was in progress. There were, what seemed like hundreds of people walking through her rolling landscaped yard (again, not on Boylston), moving shrubs, flower pots and plants. Some were carrying potted plants. Others were pushing heavier greenery down a line like hanging slabs of beef – one running into the next down the line.
The dark-haired lady’s son and grandchildren were getting out of a large, beige Buick parked on the street below, but they seemed quite inconvenienced. And this was the last I saw of them for the rest of the dream. It bothered me.
We walked around to the back yard where an expansive garden and flower plants were arranged quite nicely. There didn’t seem to be the hustle-bustle as in the front yard and I certainly didn’t see trash bags of any kind. So we decided to go inside. There, the house was laid out quite like our first house from the dream, but in much better condition – beautifully decorated. It was dimly lit, like a theater, but I could see Victorian art on the walls and beautiful brass fixtures and adorned tables with high-back chairs.
The house was a swarm of people from allover the neighborhood and we decided to take a seat in the balcony above where the neighborhood association council was setting up. I sat slightly with my back to the council tables as we were above and behind a glass partition I could lean against. The seats were full and comfortable and my family, the dark-haired lady and I sat, chatting as the council brought the meeting to order.
Six or 7 member of the council sat in a semi arch at the foot of the balcony and started to read minutes and open the meeting. It was simply chatter in the background as there wee so many people milling about behind them, it just seemed to add to the noise. Sharon and I spoke with the Dark-haired lady about the yard clean up and felt quite pleased with the progress.
As the committee member started their routine, my attention was quickly grabbed as on of the council members, a young, buttoned-up and properly suited, Ivy-league blonde woman, started talking about new regulations they were enacting for the neighborhood.
“We’ve developed a suitable program for our citizens that will help in the betterment of our community and the society as a whole. As you all know, diet is important, not only for our health, but for the propagation of our species and the World as a whole. With the proper diet…”
As she continued, I could feel myself becoming more and more uncomfortable with where the presentation was going.
“…the committee has deemed the diets within our community as ‘Sub standard’ and through well constructed evaluations and blah blah blah… we have designed a program that blah blah blah … will be enacted immediately for all of our members and neighbors.” this was followed by unified nods and confirmations from all that sat at the council tables. But I wasn’t nodding, not was I sitting. I realized I was now standing and peering over the glass. The committee member continued, “For breakfasts you will ha…”
“Who the FUCK to you think you are?” I screamed over the partition, my face red and sweaty, “Who are YOU to tell ME and MY CHILDREN what and when or HOW to eat?” The theater (pretty big house for Boylston Street) suddenly fell dead silent, and the echo of my voice rang throughout. The council director was rigidly trying to get control of the meeting – pounding his loafer on the table. And I continued, “I can’t believe you have the balls to sit there and try to tell us….”
Then, things skip ahead a bit. I must have woken up or slightly jostled in my sleep, because now I was standing in line, down in the hallway to the right of the theater stage and council tables. It seemed as though the council decided to take a break to discuss the issue and we – everyone in the house, at the same time – had to use the bathroom.
As I entered, it was definitely not a house bathroom, but that more of a venue that required 10 to 15 stalls and far reaching marbled counter tops and mirrors. Some of the council members – now in full judicial robes – were there and immediately hushed themselves as I waked in. Still being a little riled and confrontational, I smiled and tipped my hat as I walked by, “Johnson” in hand. The judges shuffled out and I relieved myself.
So, Here is where I usually wake up. If I ever dream I’m peeing, It generally means I AM PEEING! Not this time, and no, I didn’t wet the bed. That’s a completely different childhood trauma story.
When I returned from the unusually large bathroom, the crowd that had been milling about behind the council was now up in the balcony behind my family and the dark-haired lady. (Can you feel my vindication?) The council was already in session and there were some very angry citizens voicing their opinion about the new regulations.
As I waked up to my seat, I recognized a few old friends. One, from my Boston days of the early 90’s, Tom Shillue, was there making his voice heard , but he was wearing a HUGE lion costume that blocked many of the views from behind him. I mean it was incredible, the size of this costume. The head was easily five feet across of tan fur and costume batting, Tom’s thin, pale, white, New England face poked out of it like a new born baby. (okay bad metaphor… it was a dream, deal with it… and, sorry Tom) Other faces showed themselves, but were distorted or obscure, but I know they were there.
As baby-face lion Tom ranted on about the diet regulations and his delicate disposition, I took the stance of support character and simply egged on more ire from him and the crowd. Soon enough, the room was in a frenzy and the council were speechless – cut to the scene in Planet of the Apes where Taylor is telling the board about how apes were subordinates to man and how their speech and religion were based on a false history… see no evil speak no evil hear no evil. This is where I decided to take my leave.
As I waked down the stairs from the balcony, a man walked up to me. To describe him, I’d say he was a cross between Greek and Italian with robust facial hair and thick, dark curly hair that reached the nape of his neck. He was very friendly and had a tick accent, but not a Boston accent. I couldn’t place the dialect, but I could understand him well enough.
The Greek invited me to his bar that was just down the street from the dark-haired lady’s house. So we left in conversation like we were old friends…
I want to say this person was a representative of my old friend Geoff DeBello. While he looked a little different and sounded much different, the feeling was the same. He was a jokingly friendly sort with a story for any occasion. The warmth you got from The Greek was like sitting in your family kitchen waiting for the pastachina to cook. Walking and talking with him made time speed up and we were there in an instant (although I do remember Boylston has become a terrifying 8 lane highway where we had to ridge oncoming traffic and racing Ferraris. I even jumped a car or two… it was weird.).
Once we arrived at The Greek’s pub, it was as indicative of an old English pub as I could have imagined (of course). The place was dark, full of high, dark-stained tables and chairs and a low ceiling that opened up to a balcony crammed into another level of squat, dusty debauchery. The sparse windows were 4-pane glass with wooden dowels and cobwebs in the corners.
As we weaved our way past patrons and tables to the back of the pub, The Greek asked me what my favorite beer was and pointed to the walls that were covered in tap handles. From floor to ceiling there were rows upon rows of taps, in all shapes and sizes. It was a little overwhelming. As a beer connoisseur (i.e. alcoholic) this many options made it hard to make a decision for just one. “I like Shiner Bock, actually” I said, somewhat embarrassed.
“You’ll LOOOOVE this!” he said in his deep, thick accented, and handed me a blue, glass bottle with a dark label and a ceramic topper. “Filter gar bien fronthaosle grot. HEY? ….” His accent became deeper and harder to understand. And he slapped me on the shoulder while signaling me to take a seat next to the woman tallying up tickets on a high top table next to the bar.
As I sat down, he handed me and the woman a basket of freshly fried chips. I could see the grease and salt shining from the edges. These probably weren’t on the council’s diet plan, I thought.
Then, I woke up.
So freakin’ vivid. I got dressed and came down stairs to tell Sharon about the dream. She and my son, Simon stood there in awe as I told this story. I was able to step back and watch myself and it was like I was a child excited about a Christmas present. I haven’t had that feeling in a very long time.
I don’t remember dreams often. I’m not sure why. I attribute it to my anti depression medication or my many years of over indulgence. It wasn’t a scary dream or a sad dream. I have those from time-to-tine but when I wake, I can’t remember them. I just remember the residue they left on my mind.
I love that I was able to remember and document all – or at least most or what I could of this dream. It was a doozey.
Thanks for letting me share it with you.
Dreams are more fun when you fly.