artistic nude

Dreaming is something I do a lot. I sleep too much for there to not be dreams. The question is always whether I’m going to remember them. Most of the time I don’t; they’re just not that interesting. In fact, when I do remember one, it’s usually because it’s really disturbing in one way or another. That’s not the fact this time. Today’s dreams were just … odd. And, as usual, they’re not finished. I often wake up before the dream is over, as I’m sure is the case for many other people. Today, however, two totally unaffiliated dreams are still stuck in my head. Given how infrequently that happens, I thought I’d share them. Let me know in the comments below if you want to suggest ways they might have ended.

The first dream involved my late father and I. Both of us were still younger. Poppa was maybe in his late 50s, still healthy, independent, and active. He was only starting to show modest signs of slowing down. I was in my mid-20s, more muscular than I’ve ever been in real life, more confident, and more engaging. Together, we had gone to some unnamed small town in the Pacific Northwest to help with a struggling little church far removed from other churches and pretty much forgotten.

We arrived in town late on a Friday afternoon, late spring. The weather was warm enough that we didn’t need jackets, but it was far from the summers we had in Oklahoma. We were hungry so we walked into the only place open: a bar and grill that was more bar than grill. There, while we were trying to fit our mouths around sandwiches too tall for any normal-sized human, we met the chairman of the deacon body. He was a big lumberjack of a man with a room-shaking laugh and a massive beard that caught the beer that missed his mouth. We talked, sort of, as we ate. Getting any questions answered was difficult, though, as he’d stop midway through a thought to tell a raucous story or two.

When we were finished eating, he insisted that we walk with him over to the church building to meet the other deacons. Two deacons arrived shortly after we did, neither seeming to be surprised by the bigger man’s drunkenness. Three others eventually arrived, but none of them were in the mood to do anything more than socialize and tell stories about each other. They were all blue-collar men who worked with their hands. Only the mechanic owned his own business. The town only needed one mechanic anyway and most of the cars were older. The conversation was very much what one might expect from a 1970s bar, except this was the backroom of a church building and only the chairman was still drinking with the extremely large mug he’d brought with him from the bar.

Somehow, as happens in dreams, night turned into morning and one of the deacons’ wives brought in a big plate of biscuits and gravy, which was quickly devoured. She then took Poppa and me on a tour of the town while the deacons went home to nap a bit. We were not surprised that she knew everyone we met as well as the gossip about them. She was very strong in her conservative opinions and what was right or wrong about the town and I could tell that she and I were probably not going to get along.

We ended the tour at a stone gazebo in the center of town, next to the cultural museum that no one ever visited or bothered to keep up-to-date. There, we came across a group of indigenous people, mostly young women in formal regalia, with an older man taking their picture as they smiled and leaned on the railing of the gazebo. “They’re from the reservation on the other side of town,” the deacon’s wife told us. “We really don’t have anything much to do with them.”

I turned to the man taking the picture and introduced myself. He was very cordial and explained that they were taking pictures in advance of a wedding that was supposed to take place that evening. He expressed some concern that there was rain moving in off the coast that could force the wedding into a tightly cramped structure that was only large enough to hold the wedding party. I talked to Poppa and we agreed that there didn’t seem to be any reason they couldn’t use the church building if it did indeed rain. The deacon’s wife was disturbed, sure that there was a committee of some kind that needed to approve of any “strange, outside group” using the structure.

As it turned out, the rain waited until the ceremony was over, so it turned into a non-issue, but it let Poppa and I know what we were up against.

Again, one day morphed into the next. I was out exploring on my own and came across a lake divided by elevated paths that met at an empty stone building in the middle of the lake. While there, I met several indigenous young adults, two of whom had been part of the wedding party. We talked about the small town, how there were no good employment choices but they couldn’t desert the shrinking tribe. Talking turned into flirting. Someone jumped into the water, and then we all were in the water. Sex happened.

And then, damnit, I woke up.

The second dream is a little more difficult to describe because it seemed to jump around with characters appearing and disappearing. The setting is more contemporary, but not strictly because apparently I was slightly more healthy than I actually am. I may have to shorten this story, though, because I can already feel my brain beginning to melt.

The premise for this dream lies in a long-standing push on Kat’s part for me to find an additional girlfriend. The big difference here was that she was looking as well. I think an online dating app was involved, though I’m not entirely sure. We both matched with a couple of young Asian women who were friendly and intelligent online, but more reserved and quiet when we were out in public.

We were all surprised when we showed up at the same restaurant for our date, so we decided to all sit together. This was a lower-end restaurant, not quite fast food. We placed our orders at the counter and a server would bring it to us. Both of our dates ordered a fried chicken sandwich and fries. Our orders were quickly delivered but the results were disappointing. No one had any fries. The sandwiches were on five-inch sub buns. The meat was a flat, pre-frozen patty with no condiments or veggies.

I thought this was an error that needed to be rectified. I started back to the counter with the receipts and came across our server. I showed her the receipts and asked if we could at least get the fries we had ordered. She took the receipts and said she’d check with the manager.

I returned to our table and both of our dates were looking at the lame sandwiches with disgust. This was not what any of us were expecting. Instead of getting our fries, though, the manager came over the intercom, telling everyone in the restaurant that we were trying to scam them for more food than we had ordered. With everyone in the restaurant staring at us, he started repeating the claim. Our dates were quick to whip out their phone and start recording. When the manager realized that we were all four recording his tirade, he started chasing us.

We ran from the restaurant and jumped in some little electric car that I’d never seen. We backed out of the parking lot only to discover that the car would only go in reverse. Put it in drive and it just sat there. With the restaurant manager still chasing after us, I put it in reverse and we drove backward along the shoulder of a divided four-lane road. I backed into another parking lot and our friend Nan came out of nowhere to tell us that there was a better restaurant just around the corner.

I turned the car around and re-backed out of the parking lot, still going backward but at least this time going the same direction as traffic. Somehow, we made it safely down the street and I backed into yet another parking lot. This time we all got out and Kat and our dates ran into a nearby building. I thought I knew which entrance they went into, but I was wrong. I never saw any of them again.

I went into the entrance I thought was the new restaurant, but instead it was a colorful, stimulating play area for young children. I was very confused. The interior door to the play area was locked. After a short while, someone on an upper level called my name. I looked up to find a young Asian man holding a clipboard. He guided me toward an odd type of unenclosed elevator that took me to the level he was on. He asked me a couple of questions, marked something on his clipboard, and disappeared into an office. I never saw him again.

Finding a place to sit down, I watched as people moved hurriedly in and out of the offices just on the other side of a half-wall partition. They seemed to be going back and forth between managers checking to see if their “client,” which included me, qualified for something or the other. The answer was always no. After a short while, another young man, wearing a light blue lab coat, came and told me I needed to go to an office down the street. He put me in an odd chair that was part of a revolving door. The revolving door sat me into a wheelchair and pushed me down the sidewalk.

And then I woke up.

None of this makes a damn bit of sense. That’s the nature of dreams. Neither is disturbing enough to even wonder if there’s any subconscious meaning behind either of them. They’re just stories to share along with a set of unrelated pictures.