Great Dream (at 80)

Still 2

Hiding behind seat on a bus on the way to college’s last day of classes. Bad people see me and make me  clean up at front of bus and middle. I’m in a hurry to get to class so work especially hard. I’m on a bus with no schedule. No one checks up on how the schedule is running. It is not the bus I should be on.  Finally the driver says here comes the bus you should be on. I run out the door and stand in front of the oncoming bus and wave my arms. My old driver gives money to pay my fare. I get to school and have missed the last class but the food line is still open. I pick out what I want to eat and find I have the money in my hand–$10.  Someone is passing out grades and I find  out I  have he best grades in that old class–three E’s and an award of some kind.  I find my new class and sit near the front.

Earlier in the dream I am at the seashore in a wealthy lady’s house and Rob and his friend are there. The lady likes them, and me. (I think some of this part was from fiction I had been reading).

On the bus I had mentioned that I had been involved in a holdup or something and a woman there said she had covered the story.  At some point I was offered to be paid for 3 hours in a play by somebody on the phone.   (I think the lady had lent me money for that semester because my source had been stolen (based on the Dick Francis book I had been reading?)

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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