We join the dream in progress... this is probably three or more dreams smooshed together...
The setting was very bright and kept switching. I started out in a hallway outside a school gymnasium. I saw Peggy Hinsman playing basketball with a teen girl, and I wanted to see how they were going to do it because we were supposedly on a space station and I didn't get how gravity would work (Peggy and the girl seemed to have on-again-off-again gravity).
The scene changed slightly, and we were all sitting down on a kind of bleacher with our feet hooked under bars beneath the seats to keep from floating away. Peggy said that she was really excited to be on the station and was going to stay for ten years. I was part envious, part worried for her bone density, and part sad that she'd be away for so long.
There was something around here about putting together clear plastic triangles and squares and pentagons into a icasadodecahedron -- possibly for use as a greenhouse.
There's a break. I'm outside on a sunny day at a baseball diamond in a public park. There are aluminum bleachers and a very tall chain-link backstop.
I'm drinking ?Pepsi? out of a metal cup or cauldron, and I realize that it's a little dirty (like the paint is flecking off ?). So I pour the remains of the drink into an old painted/rusty metal trash can. Shining in the bottom of the can are a few dimes and quarters. So I reach in (the trash can is mostly empty except for dirt and some generic dream trash) and get them out. The drink is washing away some of the dirt and dust and more coins are showing up. I pick up the trash can (which seems to have changed to a manageable size) and start pouring the ?Pepsi? and scuzz out through my hands to get the coins.
Either I or some onlookers realize how gross this is, but I think I manage to get something like three bucks.
Continuity / memory break
I was in a house that was an amalgam of my and my parents' houses. I think I wanted to go to Portland for a conference but A) it was expensive and affording it would be dear, and B) the conference started at 3 PM, it was 1 PM, and I should have left earlier to get there on time.
Some nondescript hippy ?Arcosanti? friends, a man and a woman (both with longish hair), asked to borrow my car (which I have the impression was my old Chevy Impala Station Wagon), so I let them.
I have a sense the dream continued, but I'm not sure how the time passed. My Mom appeared and asked, "Was there any gas in the car you let [so-and-so] drive?"
"Yeah," I said. "At least a quarter tank."
"Well, they called and they've run out of gas."
I remember thinking along the lines of "why the hell did they let the car run out of gas?" and my folks and I piled into their car to go get my friends. My mom was driving, she pulled out of the (dream) driveway and onto a five-lane street (neither of us lives on such a street); the problem was that she was in the far left lane, so we were heading against traffic.
"Mom!" I said, "You're in the wrong lane! Go right, go right!"
(Backseat driving my Mom is a change from twenty years ago, when I would have started out driving and then suddenly either my Mom would be or else the steering wheel would switch over to her side.)
Anther continuity break.
I must have made it to Portland after all, because I was walking down long hallways and stairs in a shopping mall complex. I wound up in a bakery. I think I started out with my folks, and I have the impression we were traversing the mall looking for the hippy friends who'd run out of gas.
The bakery layout was an equal-armed L. The bakery floors were red tile, and I have the impression of wide strips of stained fir. There were picture view plate glass windows looking out on small mall trees. The large Hobart mixer and white flour sprinkled prep counters were in the corner of the L, with a eating area on the other side of a wooden rail (in waking life this appears to be an amalgam of the Arcosanti bakery and the Sweet Life Patisserie).
There was a discussion with the two bakers, but I don't recall the content.
Yet another break.
Mark and I were sitting or walking along the side of a park. The park was up on a berm, raised above the surrounding street and sidewalk.
Victorian-style houses were across the street. On one of them, there were various colored (crimson, pale blue, yellow) hoop skirt dresses. I'm not sure how they were standing up on the porch, but there were about five of various sizes (adult and child), in a kind of disarray.
Large black crows flew down from the rooftops and under the dresses. They flew up high with the dresses and then dropped them onto the ground. Mark said something about them trying to break them apart for food, or using them to break walnuts. The dresses landed in the street and on the sidewalk near us. There was a non-distinct crowd acting as Greek chorus and the general tone was "look at those crazy crows."
Mark and I picked up the dresses and took them back to the house. The house was mostly a dark brown on the the outside. We somehow knew the (mostly) women living there (?they were the bakers?), and they invited us inside.
Inside was dark and cluttered in a college student way. I have an impression of a desk fountain tricking somewhere, and candles. All the housemates seemed to be home and we started chatting. Someone invited us to play music. The next thing, I'm feeling something on my toe, and I can't move my right foot because Mark has opened a folding organ pedal rack over it. "My foot is there," I say, and we manage to get it out. Somehow 'my foot it there' is a kind of joke.
The housemates also own an old bulbous ceramic flute; sort of a cross between an ocarina and a bassoon and a flask. It had a drone string inside tuned to the resonant frequency of the flute.
Mark picks up the flute and plays this mellow Japanese style -- it's slow and beautiful. I pick it up and play raucous Klezmer style, which sounds totally corny and sophomoric.
"Oh, that's so beautiful," one of the residents says and I'm revealed by her kindness (but at the same time wondering why she liked it).
Inside the flute, next to the drone string, is a small metal rectangular medallion of bronze. The bronze looks very old, and I turn the flute around and somehow know that it's from Tel Aviv. "Is that a Sumerian depiction of Marduk?" I ask.
"No," says the only male housemate. "It's a Phonetician for the wolf tree."
The dream ends....
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