Coffee and Dreams
I awoke at about half past darkness with a dream in mind. Realized that I was writing in my dream.
I went over what I’d written. Considered rising to capture it. Decided not to. Resumed sleep.
Awoke in the morning. Went through dreams while doing light exercising and stretching. Daily ritual. The cats assumed the position. Stared fixedly with misery. Tucker seized a more active approach. Moved over and sat on my foot. Looked up at me. Eyes big. Waiting. Expectant. Give a little, “Mello,” in a friendly baritone.
Done with exercising, feeding cats was necessary before starvation took them. We went down the hall, they with eager anticipation, me with resignation. Cleaned out bowls — “You never even finished what I fed you last night” — opened a can. Doled out the wet food. Refilled the kibble stations. Cleaned and filled the water stations.
Coffee was brewed. Before it finished, I was back with the dream writing stuff. Headed to the computer. Wrote for an hour. Surprising how fresh and clear it had remained. Got up when my Fitbit reminded me that it was time to move. Remembered my coffee. Now cold. Drank some anyway. My taste buds immediately sent notices that this was unacceptable. I nuked the coffee hot. The taste buds were appalled.
Writing in my head was still happening. Hadn’t eaten yet but the muses were strong. So, despite the stomach’s increasingly vocal demands, I made fresh coffee and returned to the keyboard. Got back into the rhythm.
Half the coffee remains. It’s almost cold. Mug radiates an ant watt of warmth. Taste buds are not overly pleased with the dark fluid’s progress over their realm.
But it all works. Coffee and dreams. At least, today. Time to eat, according to my stomach. Get some real coffee, too, the taste buds request. Something hot and dark, please.
The Camp Dream
I was an adult and at a camp or retreat. Nothing posh. Many other people there. No one I know. Most were my age. A few were older. Part of the setting, a mild green tinge imbued everything. Skin, clothing, skin. All were tinged green. Not deep. But noticeable.
They made an announcement that we were going to play games. Everyone else was already in gym gear. I needed to change and told them. I had some trouble finding my gym bag. Once I found it, I sought privacy to change. The only place I could find was an old restroom. Cold and wet rough cement floor. Yellow walls — tinged green. Door that didn’t fit right. The door had a dead bolt. I was trying to close it and lock the dead bolt but others kept interrupting. I finally explained what I was trying to do. Left alone, I closed the door and bolted it. Stripped down to put on gym clothes. First set didn’t fit. They couldn’t be my clothes. But I knew those clothes and it was my bag. Next, I couldn’t get the shorts on and then I ripped them. Finally, I managed to get something on that fit. The white shorts and tight white top didn’t please me. But I had nothing else. I went with it.
I went outside to discover that they’d already begun playing. Teams were even. I couldn’t participate. That upset me. I understood that I’d been a long time and that they couldn’t wait But, mitigating what had happened, I’d been delayed. Nevertheless, that was the situation.
I moved to the side by myself and watched. The dream bounced forward from that scene. The games were over. We were gathered to hear about the next activity. Young woman of color was announcing it. I was sitting with others. We’re all tinged green. The coordinator said, “I hear that there’s a writer or novelist among you. Who is that? You’ll enjoy this activity.”
I immediately raised my hand. My hand was the only one raised. People around me turned and pointed to me while saying, “He’s the writer, he’s the novelist.”
The coordinator never looked my way. Never saw me. Then went on, “Who wants to do a fun creative exercise?” My hand was still up. Others still pointed at me. But others raised their hands. The coordinator went to them and passed out the exercise. This went on until only me and one other remained. The other was a young woman of color. She and I told the coordinator that we weren’t given an exercise.
The coordinator said, “Oh, you two can work together.” She then gave us some objective which struck me as make-work.
My partner and I went off to a table. She sat down. Rain sprinkled down. I said, “I don’t think I want to do this. It seems like a waste of time.”
She said, “Neither do I.” She called the coordinator over and said, “We’re not doing this.”
I then walked off.
Dream end.
