art – Page 4 – Michael Seidel, writer

Dreamland has been a busy place for me, but life has been busy, keeping my deeper ruminations about my dreams to minimal levels. Last night’s dream about being a refugee had a sharper feel to it, though.

I was a prisoner along with many others and had been for some time. The dream really began at the end of that incarceration, when we finally found a way past the gates and walls keeping us in captivity. After we came out, blinking because we were seeing the sun for the first time in weeks, we were told by someone anonymous that we were free, and that ‘our side’ had won.

We’d been falsely imprisoned, though, and wanted justice for that. The people who were responsible were eight men. We wanted them found and brought to trial. I was given the task of drawing wanted posters for them.

I protested, I don’t even know how they look. Well, it needed to be done, and I needed to do it, because I was the one who could, I was told.

I found paper, charcoal, and pencils, and began doing sketches, working off other people’s descriptions of the eight. Someone told me about an office where a cache of information was. Going there and rooting around, I found that someone else had already created rudimentary sketches of the eight. I began improving these, shaping and sharpening features, adding details. It all came sharper into mind as I worked.

The people in charge came by to see how I was progressing and were impressed by my work. Looking out, we then saw a bearded man walking past who resembled the number one wanted person on my poster. As word spread that it was him, I held up my poster and looked at him in profile, amazed at how well I’d captured his image.

Dream end

This dream was all about a friend’s appearance. He’s a professional musician. Been doing it since the late 1960s. He’s on dozens of albums, released some of his own, played with rockers all over the world, and scored movies.

My wife and I were outside. Not our ‘real-life’ home but it was our home. Lot of green grass, bushes, and trees. I looked across the way. Saw D, my friend, the musician. He was in gray shorts and a maroon tee, playing basketball on outdoor court. Dribbling, hook and jump shots, three-pointers, passing, doing it all in an impressive way. Never missed a shot. Never blocked. And no one scored on him.

My wife and I reacted, “Wow, look at him. Who knew?” Amazing to see him out there, lean pale body flashing, shock of silvery white house fluttering with action, that ready grin on his face.

She and I went back into our house. Had to prepare to go somewhere. Glancing out the window, I thought I saw someone working on the neighbor’s lawn. I thought it was D. Made no sense. He’s a musician, not a landscaper.

We went back outside, leaving the house, going for the car. I told her, “Wait.” I checked the neighbor’s yard. Yes, lawn work was being done. Bushes and trees trimmed. Grass cut. Driveway and walk edged. A vehicle with a trailer of equipment was parked at the curb. There was D.

I called his name. He turned. Waved. “You’re doing yard work?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I need the money.”

I went on and told my wife what I saw and our conversation.

Dream end.