The Bread Dream
I was having dinner at my in-laws’ house. The small dining room was crowded with several tables, Maple wood, Americana design. The tables are full of food. It’s like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, al set up at once. The tables and chairs are crowded together, making walking around difficult. Careful paths must be followed.
I was making a plate up for my mother-in-law. In RL, she died several years ago. I’d filled half of a flowery China plate with food for her. I was walking around with the plate in my hand, looking for mashed potatoes. While looking for them, I kept finding huge stashes of bread. It was all variations available – rye loaves, sourdough, sliced, rolls, hamburger and hot dog buns, some small, fancy loaves, seeded loaves, long baguettes. Wholly unlike my RL in-laws who ate white hamburger and hot dog buns and Roman Meal bread. I never saw a baguette in their house in forty-five years of knowing them. The bread is everywhere, on the tables, under the tables, on the chairs, on the floor, in the corners. Some of it is bagged and some of it is loose.
She was on the other side of the room with her back to me. I said to her, “Wow, you sure do have a lot of bread. Why do you have so much bread?” An answer wasn’t given; I kept looking for the mashed potatoes.
Dream shift. It’s now night. My wife and I are in a car. We’re waiting to pick up something from my FIL. In RL, he passed away at the end of 1991. I’m waiting to back into a spot on the street. The street is wet. Before I can park where I want, I need to wait for a truck to pull out and leave, otherwise, I’ll block him in. I’m watching the truck in my mirror, muttering, “Come on, come on, what is taking so long?”
The truck finally pulls away. I back into the desired spot, and parallel park with amazing perfection. My FIL comes out. I open the trunk. I turn to see what he’s loading. I’m incredulous as I realize he’s putting bread in the trunk. I tell him, “Why do you need so much bread? You have a ton of the stuff at home.”
He closes the trunk and tells me to pull back to another location. I do that, and then get out to see how I’m parked. The dark car is perfectly parked again. My FIL comes out with his arms full and tells me to open the back door. I do; he puts more bread in it. I ask again, “Why do you want so much bread?”
Dream ends.
Three Dream Vignettes
I experienced three highly detailed, vivid dreams last night, all in a row, flowing from one to the other. First up.
I’m in a car driving in a city in the late afternoon to early evening. I’ve come up to a large and busy intersection. The light is red. I have friends in other cars. We’re all going somewhere. My wife is with me in the car.
I think the light is green and go forward. In a flash, like it’s a film being shown, I see cutaways to friends in other cars saying, “Why is Michael going? The light is red. He shouldn’t be going.” They blow their horns.
I’m driving through the intersection. My wife shouts, “What are you doing? The light is red.”
I’m looking up through the windshield. The light is red, but I thought it was a green light. I’m certain that I saw one.
The traffic turning left against us is light. The drivers of those cars are aware that I’m not doing something right. They give me space and distance. No one is hurt except me and my pride. What is wrong with me?
I pull over to the curb. I’m alone in the car. I’m trying to understand why I thought there was a green light. I look up in time to see a young driver execute in the other direction. He’s driving a mid-sixties Pontiac GTO. Classic muscle car. It’s in impressive condition, with a well-maintained, shiny body. As I watch, this young white guy, maybe seventeen years old, does a U turn and hits the side of my car.
I can’t believe this. He’s pulled over. I get out of my car and look at the damage. My car is silver. The damage is light, toward the rear quarter panel. I approach him, and tell him, “You know the drill. License, registration, insurance.” He’s crying because he just got his license. He knows he’ll face trouble. I feel sympathy for him.
My wife comes up. I ask for the camera. She starts making demands about how this will be handled, wanting me to make promises. We get into an argument. She won’t give me the camera. Irritated, I find my computer to take pictures. I know I can, but, the computer is missing its two AA batteries needed for the camera aspect. But, I have batteries in another part of the computer, use those and take the photos needed.
Number two.
I’m talking to a friend and mentioned something about the Chevy El Camino. I ask him if he knows what they are and how they look. He’s not familiar with it, so I tell him I’ll draw a picture of one. For whatever reason, I’m referring to the fourth-generation design from the early to mid 1970s. I’m explaining the design details as I draw it, talking about the front grill, and how it went from a single headlight to a double-stacked headlight on either side. I realize that I’m drawing on top of another drawing someone has done. I’m astonished. How did I not see that?
I don’t want to draw on another’s drawing. It’s a landscape, sort of a primitive style executed in charcoal. I admire it, erase my drawing, and find another piece of paper. I think it’s blank but as I begin drawing again, I see that there is a drawing on it.
I’m amazed. Why can’t I see those drawings before I begin drawing?
Number three.
We’ve arrived at a huge factory. Besides the factory, it has a large administrative/office section. I’m with a party of friends, all male. I think there are twenty of us. None of them are people known from RL but I know all of them in the dream.
A young brunette woman with a ponytail is showing us around the building. When we walk into one part, we men all start laughing. A tall space, it’s divided into sections and cubicles and is stacked from floor to ceiling with mechanical equipment and electronic gear. I exclaim, “This is exactly the kind of place that I used to work in.” The other men are saying the same thing. We’re all laughing and agreeing, it’s just like where we used to work. We just walk around, talking about the environment. I follow the path, remembering where my cubicle would have been located. In RL, I never worked in a place like this, but in the dream, I turn a corner, and there is my old workstation. Pointing it out to the rest, I laugh. When they see my station, they go off and start finding their own old workstations. How is this possible, we wonder, because we all worked in different places?
The Path
Sometimes I think
You’re deliberately ignorant
And sometimes it appears
That you’re maliciously slow
But wherever you are
Is wherever I go
I’ll follow you there
And even more
I’ll carry you on
When we’ve gone too far
Though the sun stops shining
And we lose ourselves
Yeah, we lose our minds
And our sense of time
Though I don’t always show it
I hope you still know
Wherever you are
Is wherever I’ll go
I’ll follow you
I will follow you
The Grandparents Dream
I dreamed of Grandma Kitty, Grandpa Paul, and Grandma McCune (who was my great grandmother, but was called Grandma McCune). All have passed away at least four decades ago.
In my dream, I was a young man in a city. I wandered about, looking for food and exploring places. The city, packed with small concrete buildings abutting one another, had many narrow alleys and roads. I explored to sate my curiosity about what the city held, peeking in throug windows, entering buildings, and walking through rooms.
Eventually I went into a large house. This belonged to my family. Large rooms with golden pillars. Pale gold walls, white ceilings, soft, low golden light, and deep red carpeting. A mansion, I realized with surprise, that belonged to my family. I had not realized their wealth, I thought in the dream, because in RL there wasn’t such wealth. The family was solid middle class.
People were busy with activities when I entered. I was now a teenager. It wasn’t many people and seemed to be family. I don’t know what they were doing. As I walked through, taking it all in, I saw Grandpa Paul, just as he was when I last saw him, smile, and turn away. As I went on, I spied the back of Grandma Kitty bustling around a large kitchen area. Grandma McCune (a tiny, thin woman, barely taller than me whenI was a little boy) passed and gave me a meek wave and a small smile, as she always did (she passed when I was five or so).
What next transpired is muddled. I ended up learning from Grandma Kitty that I would not receive Grandma McCune’s legacy unless I told her that I love her, because she was upset with me. I knew that she was due to pass on. I tried approaching Grandma McCune but then returned to Grandma Kitty. I told her, “I don’t know how to tell Grandma McCune that I love her.” When I spoke, I’d begun sobbing. Grandma Kitty took me in her arms and hugged me with a smile, telling me, “Don’t worry, it’ll be alright. She knows.”
I left and wandered the city. I was trying to return to where I was before. I thought I knew the way sufficiently that a shortcut was warranted. But when I entered the space, I realized that I didn’t have a mask. Exiting, I walked along a broken drainage ditch, thinking about how to get a mask, trying to remember where I’d left it. I decided that I’d sneak in one way and try to get back to my place. Thinking I knew the right door, I entered a pink hovel.
Inside were several men in a small, dark room. I nodded at them as I passed through. Reaching the other side, I opened the door. I expected to leave; instead, it was a tiny bathroom occupied by a man taking a piss.
I backed away and shut the door. Certain that I’d passed through here before and that I could return to where I had been, I walked around, hunting for another door. None were there. There was only the one, to the bathroom.
The man using it exited. I entered the bathroom and searched for a secret door. I didn’t find one. Yet, I remained confident that I was right.
I stepped back out to the other room. Four men were still there, older, bearded, sitting. I stood in the room’s center, thinking. I decided that I would wait for the men to leave and see how they left. Meanwhile, I’d keep thinking about the room and looking for a door where I was. As I decided this, one of the sitting men said, “Hey, is anyone else waiting for the john? I thought you were all waiting for it. If you’re not, then I’m going to go ahead and use it, if you don’t mind.” He had an Australian accent. As he passed me, I turned, and thought I caught sight of the door I sought in a corner.
The dream ended.
Michael Seidel, writer 