on dreams (bis)

I have a few more dreambits to share, even though they sound silly when I try to write them out.

I dreamt I was hanging out with a group of teenagers (why? who knows? I shouldn't ask these questions when I'm dreaming), on a bright summer day, somewhere on an abandoned construction site in Saint-Eustache. One of the teens, a tall, lanky dirty blonde with bangs growing into his eyes, wants to talk to me in private, and suggests we hide in the unhitched, unmarked trailer of an eighteen wheeler. We hop in, and stand to the front, where we're in the shade.

The conversation never got started. Our weight tips the trailer off-balance and sends us careening down an embankment, flipping end over end, until we land in the yard behind a little restaurant Pat and I frequent in real life. As we walk around the restaurant to the sidewalk, we come across a sullen-looking Louis-José Houde (one of the hottest stand-up comics in Quebec), who's trying to find his manager. We tell him to come with us, since we're familiar with that part of town.

There's way too many people on the sidewalk; something's brewing. Over on the horizon, a blackened, decrepit silo starts to break apart and topple under darkening skies. People scream and start rushing about. A man to my left shouts and points to the Deux-Montagnes water tower that has somehow relocated about three and a half miles north-east as the crow flies. A cartoony crack starts from the bottom of the tower and rapidly expands up the side of the tower facing us. We break into a dead run in the opposite direction, over a wooden fence; we're hoping to make it to some guy's house, because he has plenty of inflatable pool toys that can save us from drowning.

Like I said, it made so much more sense at the time...

The next one occurred the very same night:

A small group of us were going to some kind of event dinner, maybe a graduation...and again, I wind us seated at a table with a waiter who doesn't want to serve us, or more specifically, me. I have no idea why. My presence is ruining everything for the group, so I wonder aloud to one of my friends if it wouldn't be better of I just switched groups. The end.

This one, at least, is my mind trying to make sense of the difficult time I'm currently having with the class dynamic, and deciding whether to pursue the graduate diploma after this semester.

The third happened a couple of nights ago, and isn't really much to talk about.

There's a deeply sloping street to my right - I mean, ski jump kind of pitch. Instead of a sidewalk, there are wooden stairs, painted dark forest green. About halfway down the slope, there's Pat sitting in the stairs. A few steps above, me. And a few more steps above, a weird hybrid between Chris Jericho and our good friend PeeWee. And we're just chatting away...

The weird thing is that this bit made me realize that I often remember either the characters very clearly, or the action, but rarely both. As well, I tend to merge people together, like in the example above; I wonder what that might mean. It's like a double-exposed film - both are there, at the same time, yet they are really together neither in space nor time. How odd.

Today, in six: I'm being invaded by strange students.

(589)