collected dreambits

A bunch of dreambits, in no particular order:

I was seated at a lone picnic table in the middle of a vast field, or rather, a vast expanse of well-kept grass. It wasn’t golf-course, painted-on quality, but it certainly didn’t have that tall-grass feeling to it. I was watching an air show; as jets flew overhead, the wind rose and I felt a chill. Seated next to me, the Undertaker lent me his jacket.

My dad was called upon to investigate a plane crash for the military; was it an accident, or something more sinister? IRL, my father was an aerodynamics expert, so the concept isn’t too far-fetched, but I guess this is what happens when I watch “Seconds from disaster” before going to bed.

I remember seeing my cubicle, whose walls are light beige (don’t get me started), covered with spots where flies were swatted, some with the flies still stuck there. Of course, I have a history of flattening flies and mosquitoes onto these walls with my notebook, so that they do leave a mark that I then treat with Tide to Go – but that was twice over the span of eighteen months, not fifty or so at a time, as I was seeing.

I was chatting with colleagues at the top of the stairs over the cafeteria where I work, when a woman came up to me, fully expecting me to know who she was. When my blank stare confirmed I had no clue, she prodded me by reminding me she was my mother. Even then, the recognition was faint at best.

I was having dinner with a group of friends in someone’s apartment. As the meal was being prepared, we were having a discussion over red wine about the merits of vegetarianism. In the kitchen, there were two large pans – one containing a live chicken, the other a live goat. I couldn’t bear to kill them myself, or stand to watch someone else do the deed – I burst out crying in great sobs to the girl who was my best friend in high school (and whom I haven’t seen since.)

I was standing on the north side of Cathcart Street, between McGill College and University. The street was undergoing serious repairs, and its surface consisted of gravel in great crests and troughs along the length of the street. A few other people were trying to cross, but when we tried, sometimes the ground was solid, and sometimes people sank to their waists as though in quicksand. People already on the south side of the street were stopped and watched us, shouting out directions of where the ground was safe and trying to extricate the unfortunates. I managed to work my way across without sinking, simply by keeping moving at a good clip.

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