Sorry it's been a while, but I have not really had much in the way of a concrete, memorable dream. Last night’s is still bouncing around in my head, haunting me but refusing to let me grasp it completely.
There are earlier parts, but the first thing that I can remember is it is night and I am walking across a parking lot towards my brother’s apartment, which is in the basement of a large red-brick warehouse. The lot is well lit and I appear to be in semi-formal clothes – button up shirt but no tie, nice pants, patent-leather shoes. In the distance I see a white kid in a knit cap pulling a cart loaded with supermarket odds and ends: toiletries, canned goods, etc. He’s yelling out prices like a carnival barker as he runs by, and I feel hungry so I yell out to him, hoping to buy some cheap, black-market goods. By the time I can get a word out he’s gone already, but two young black kids with a shopping cart pull up next to me, both of them are boys, one about seven the other in his early teens. I go through the cart and grab a package that has the shape and labeling of a 24-pack of toilet paper, but is filled with pasta. I ask for a can of sauce, or salsa, or anything to go with the noodles, and the younger boy tells me I can have the sauce and noodles for $94,000.
I’m a bit shocked at the price, but it’s so high that I find it more amusing than insulting. I try to talk him down, when the white kid from before runs up and tells the others to leave - the cops are coming. We all ignore him, and I try to talk the kid down in price; he keeps agreeing to halves, but the price started so high that it’s still ridiculous. Then my brother walks up and he is a well-groomed young black man with gold-rimmed glasses, an aggressively trimmed mustache and a brown suit. Suddenly I feel guilty, and I know that he is angry about my attempted purchase of stolen goods, because a thief killed our father.
He says nothing to me but stalks away and I sink to my knees in a puddle, feeling the water soaking into my pants. The young black boy sounds sad as he tells me the price was so high because every purchase gets the buyer a prophecy. I’m numb with my apparent betrayal of my brother, so I reach into my wallet and give him $83, asking if it will get me a single pop-tart. He gives it to me and slips a piece of paper into my coat pocket, before he and his brother push their cart off into the darkness.
I walk slowly towards my brother’s apartment; a small ramp down leads to the basement entrance. There are great golden doors with no handles, and they are intricately embossed. I pound and demand to be let in, and some feeling of a biblical reference flits through my mind. The door slowly opens, and as it does I realize that throughout the entire dream, even the parts I can’t remember, there has been a beautiful woman following me, just at the corner of my vision, curious and comforting. She was always there but for some reason unnoticed.
My brother’s apartment is large and richly decorated, lit entirely by candles. He sits in an expensive leather chair and two other large black men stand behind him, but if they are bodyguards or friends I do not know.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees and fingers forming a steeple in front of his face. He says nothing. The candles dance and form harder shadows than they should; not soft diffused light, but either pale yellow or blackness.
I sit on an overstuffed couch; next to me is a stack of triangular bowls, each a different color and opacity. I start throwing them at the wall, taking them from the bottom of the stack instead of the top. No one says or does anything. I stop when I come to a milky white one with swirls of clear glass. Out of my pocket I take the piece of paper that the young boy gave me, I unfold it, start to read it and am afraid.
It is a poem, and I cannot remember it exactly, but I will do my best. There were four stanzas, each four lines, each with a color theme that matched the remaining bowls on the maple end table to my left. I do not know why it frightened me so, or why, when I read it aloud, my brother was afraid as well. I woke up halfway through my reading of it, further blurring it in my memory.
An egg-white sky blows
A wind from that same state
The air is new
The air is dead
The deep red sea boils
Storms without rain
Sleep without rest
Dark blue flame in blackness
Gives no light
No warmth, but it burns
Tar-black earth and fertile ash
No seeds, no grass
Soft as dreams, grit and dry
Right colors, wrong time.
I have no freaking clue what it means. I have to stop dreaming about the end of the world or I’ll go mad. The poem was much better in my dream, and I cannot remember the words exactly. I may have ruined it; word choice is everything in poetry. The only lines I am sure of are the first to and the first line of the second stanza. I think “same state” refers to the newness and youth of an egg, like a fresh breeze. I don’t know if “deep red” means the ocean is deep or if the red was deep, but in my dream I envisioned a sea of wine, with waves crashing.
In other news I might have a job at a local paper, so wish me luck. Also, Autumn is simply frikken amazing. I want to give a shout-out to all my peeps…