The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Yesterday, not that very far from here,  the Bridgewater-Raritan High School reopened after being closed since the arrest of a 16 year old junior  last Thursday who was targeting the school in a Columbine-like attack. An unidentified female student alerted a police officer permanently stationed at the school and that led to the arrest at the student’s home where police found an arsenal of explosives, bomb-making plans and ammunition. Another suspect, a senior from another area high school was also arrested for helping supply the 16 year old with ammunition and was also instrumental in helping his secure his supplies. The unidentified girl, described as shy, is being considered a hero for helping save the lives of the 2,900 students at the school.

If it’s Tuesday, it must be Baby Picture Monday. This is me at about 4 years old.

Let’s get back to that dream I hinted at yesterday.  Ariel and I were in some darkly lit pub-type place. Along the length of one wall was a heavilyand  ornately carved bar and moldings up on the wall behind it that separated sections of mirror reflecting the shiny bottles of liquor on the shelves. Opposite the bar, along the other wall were tables and chairs. At the far end of the bar was an opening in the wall that let out to a stagy area where a play was about to take place.

We had gotten there late and shared a table with family; mother, father and 3 sons, who all looked alike, as though they were 3 different aged versions of the same person, all in blue button down shirts and a crop of thick dark hair, parted on the side. The didn’t seem to mind that we were sharing their table, but except for the initial smile of acknowledgment when we first arrived, they acted as though we weren’t even there.

Who else was in the audience was my father, who had maneuvered his power chair into position at a table and somehow I knew he was thirsty. To get to the bar was nearly impossible because of the throng of people already bellied up to get drinks so I made my way to the cafeteria in another part of the bar. I stood in line while a bunch of indecisive clods tried to figure what to order while time was running out for the start of the show. Finally, when the group in front of me had placed their order, I shimmied my way up closer because I knew the guy behind the counter wouldn’t hear  my low speaking voice. While I waited for my drinks, I moved out of the way for other people and overheard the beginning of a nauseating exchange between a waitress and a customer.

The waitress was wearing a paper hat, kind of like the type they used to wear at McDonald’s and she had a straw resting behind her ear and the customer was a Paul Newman type of guy who got her all giddy and she was kind of cooing answers to questions he would ask her and he began to coo in that same way with her. I rolled my eyes in disgust, grabbed my drinks and left. The play had started already, but I took my place at the table near the end of the bar with the family of blue shirted young men. What was supposed to be a tree, above the bar, splintered outward with the voice of Bette Midler singing and that was the finale of act one. Next thing I know, I could swear that was her, sitting within arms length from me, taking off her jacket, her back to me. She wouldn’t turn around, but I knew it was her. Ariel told me to go to her, but I shied away.  (What’s up with that?)

Wow, I just realized this is gonna get long. There is a whole ‘nother half to the crazy dream, but let me get to a good spot to stop it. There seemed to be a long long delay in the start of the second act and suddenly the lights came up in the stage area glowing yellow and orange and my nieces, my step-brother’s daughters, Brittni and Jenna, not Melissa and Angela, became all giddy and flopped themselves onto a crushed velvet upholstered settee on the far end of the stage and a troupe of actors in togas and gold painted laurels of grape leaves, or whatever they used back then, soon appeared and began to act out some dramatic Grecian performance.

When the scene was over, the one who was tragically killed lay in billows of red fabric and as he was pulled off the stage by the “slaves” his toga rode up and try as he might to conceal himself, he was temporarily “exposed” and he seemed pretty proud of it.

And that’s enough for today. Did you hear me call number 52?


One Response to “The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of”

  1. Melissa Says:

    Hm, number 52…. is this foreshadowing of a story that is to come? Or is it something that I’ve already missed???

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