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I dream alot. Most of the time I remember them. But most of the time, the dreams are bizarre and incoherent, without a cogent storyline. The dream I had last night, though, wasn't.
I had arrived in New York City. I was going to work with a group of dysfunctional boys who didnt have anyone to take care of them and lived at a boy's home in the Bronx. I also had done some work, through my political campaign, which was considered "sensitive" by the government. I guess you could say I was somewhat of a spy. Just like a movie, the first part of the dream kind of built up my relationships with the troubled youth. One especially bright one wanted to become a doctor. Then men started showing up asking them questions, roughing them up. I was driving them in our van to a baseball game, when suddenly we were rammed by a car from the side. The boys scrambled out, I went to look in the car.....noone there. The perpetrator had left. Anyways, towards the end, one of the boys was kidnapped, and the rest were threatened. A couple of my roommates, who had also worked on the "sensitive" side of the campaign, came up to visit me, and we noticed that wherever we walked we were being tailed. Finally, we received a hand-written note to meet a "friend" at an old New York mansion.
My friends and I went there, and sitting on a patio outside, drinking tea, was........Janine! Except for one thing. She was a middle-aged Jamaican woman. Seated next to her was Dreamer, slowly sipping tea, gazing stoically through her sun-glasses. You could tell she was no stranger to international intrigue. I walked up and said, "Hello, Janine, how are you? Its a pleasure to finally make your aquaintance." "Yah man, tis good to meet you as well," she said. I thought to myself - didn't she look white in her Internet photo? I wonder how Martin really looks then? Being as delicate as I could, I said " Is your last name....Baker? Because...." "Yah man, it tis....well," and her voice broke into a whisper, " No, it tisnt....but she doesnt want to be found. Now stop asking questions. I have some things for you." As she said this, she slipped a folded slip of paper into my palm, and ushered me into a parlor through a beaded curtain. On the walls were all sorts of fragrant herbs. She handed me one - I guessed that she knew about my weird health problems - and ushered me into what I could only imagine would be called the grand hall. The walls were covered in Oriental tapestries, and the floors and pillars were of rose colored marble. Eventhough I was wearing my white dress shirt with khakis, I felt deeply underdressed. My friends and I followed her as she made a left into a gigantic library, and out a door in the back, which led onto another New York street. A dark van was parked near the curb. I opened up the folded note. It read, in shaky blue-inked cursive " If you want to live: 1. Get in the van. 2. Be discreet 3. Listen to the driver. 4. Get out at the airport .....There are people who care. " It was signed " The gentleman's trust". "Get in," I said, as I motioned to my friends. We piled into the van, our faces concealed by the murk of the tinted windows.
The driver barely acknowledged our presence as he sped, accelerating at a disturbing rate, down the residential street. " The key to staying alive, " he said, as he chomped on a cigar, " Is to never be IDed." He threw me a T-shirt with Grateful Dead on it. I took off my white dress shirt, and slipped the black T over my head. As I did so, he seemed to see someone on the sidewalk, holding up a wallet. He pulled over, grabbed the wallet through his driver side window, and then swore. Behind us was the same make of the car which had plowed into OUR vehicle, some weeks before. We'd been IDed. We pulled out, almost neck and neck with the white vehicle, and began racing towards the airport.....
That was pretty much it. But that was one of the most exciting, coherent dreams I ever had. It was a pleasure making your aquaintance, Janine and Dreamer. Well, almost, Janine. If my dream had continued, I imagine we might have met at the airport. That story reminded me of how much fun it is to write. Almost makes me want to finish the story....
Peace
Homeskooled
I had arrived in New York City. I was going to work with a group of dysfunctional boys who didnt have anyone to take care of them and lived at a boy's home in the Bronx. I also had done some work, through my political campaign, which was considered "sensitive" by the government. I guess you could say I was somewhat of a spy. Just like a movie, the first part of the dream kind of built up my relationships with the troubled youth. One especially bright one wanted to become a doctor. Then men started showing up asking them questions, roughing them up. I was driving them in our van to a baseball game, when suddenly we were rammed by a car from the side. The boys scrambled out, I went to look in the car.....noone there. The perpetrator had left. Anyways, towards the end, one of the boys was kidnapped, and the rest were threatened. A couple of my roommates, who had also worked on the "sensitive" side of the campaign, came up to visit me, and we noticed that wherever we walked we were being tailed. Finally, we received a hand-written note to meet a "friend" at an old New York mansion.
My friends and I went there, and sitting on a patio outside, drinking tea, was........Janine! Except for one thing. She was a middle-aged Jamaican woman. Seated next to her was Dreamer, slowly sipping tea, gazing stoically through her sun-glasses. You could tell she was no stranger to international intrigue. I walked up and said, "Hello, Janine, how are you? Its a pleasure to finally make your aquaintance." "Yah man, tis good to meet you as well," she said. I thought to myself - didn't she look white in her Internet photo? I wonder how Martin really looks then? Being as delicate as I could, I said " Is your last name....Baker? Because...." "Yah man, it tis....well," and her voice broke into a whisper, " No, it tisnt....but she doesnt want to be found. Now stop asking questions. I have some things for you." As she said this, she slipped a folded slip of paper into my palm, and ushered me into a parlor through a beaded curtain. On the walls were all sorts of fragrant herbs. She handed me one - I guessed that she knew about my weird health problems - and ushered me into what I could only imagine would be called the grand hall. The walls were covered in Oriental tapestries, and the floors and pillars were of rose colored marble. Eventhough I was wearing my white dress shirt with khakis, I felt deeply underdressed. My friends and I followed her as she made a left into a gigantic library, and out a door in the back, which led onto another New York street. A dark van was parked near the curb. I opened up the folded note. It read, in shaky blue-inked cursive " If you want to live: 1. Get in the van. 2. Be discreet 3. Listen to the driver. 4. Get out at the airport .....There are people who care. " It was signed " The gentleman's trust". "Get in," I said, as I motioned to my friends. We piled into the van, our faces concealed by the murk of the tinted windows.
The driver barely acknowledged our presence as he sped, accelerating at a disturbing rate, down the residential street. " The key to staying alive, " he said, as he chomped on a cigar, " Is to never be IDed." He threw me a T-shirt with Grateful Dead on it. I took off my white dress shirt, and slipped the black T over my head. As I did so, he seemed to see someone on the sidewalk, holding up a wallet. He pulled over, grabbed the wallet through his driver side window, and then swore. Behind us was the same make of the car which had plowed into OUR vehicle, some weeks before. We'd been IDed. We pulled out, almost neck and neck with the white vehicle, and began racing towards the airport.....
That was pretty much it. But that was one of the most exciting, coherent dreams I ever had. It was a pleasure making your aquaintance, Janine and Dreamer. Well, almost, Janine. If my dream had continued, I imagine we might have met at the airport. That story reminded me of how much fun it is to write. Almost makes me want to finish the story....
Peace
Homeskooled
