Have you ever had the unsettling feeling that a dream was trying to tell you, “You don’t really want that”?
Last night I dreamed I was between gigs (no surprise there), and I wandered about San Francisco aimlessly. Actually, I looked for an art supply shop or a bookstore but figured I’d run across one or the other eventually. Now if you’ve visited San Francisco, you know that the financial contrast hits you like a slap in the puss. Walk into one part of the city, and you’ll stumble into Armani and other designer shops. Walk a few more blocks, and you’ll trip over a homeless person on skid row. I expressed my astonishment to a concierge who responded, “A Japanese man told me something similar to that about 4 minutes ago. He said that you walk out the door and turn left, and you run into that. Walk out the door and turn right, and you run into this. He said ‘This isn’t like two different cities. This is like two different planets.’ ”
Back to the dream. Running across neither art supply shop nor lit hole, I decided to head home. How to get home was the problem. Oh but what the hell, I thought. Hell, if you pick a direction, you’ll eventually hit home. Any path will eventually lead to where you wish to go — as long as you can read the huge sign that says ‘Okay, it’s time to exit this strip, and follow the roundabout.” Even in my dreams, I am one illogical kitty. Mr. Spock would have wanted to marry me in case things became dull on Vulcan.
In this dream, I hit the subway and caught a train (I’m not sure if San Fran has a subway. When I was there some time ago, I hoofed it). Beyond the train’s windows, women were dressed in black velvet gowns and men in expensive-looking suits. Gold, carnival-style masks hid the upper portions of their faces while they boozed it up, shook their asses, and laughed, so that the outside world looked like Mardi Gra for the shamelessly wealthy and insanely greedy. Wherever the train was heading, the ch00 choo was taking me where I didn’t want to go. After jumping off at the next stop, I worked my way through the obscenely rich fucks who ignored my presence. Someone jerked me violently to one side, and I shot my “What the Hell is your problem?” look at the guy who assaulted me — a strange bloke with the skin like an olive Crayola crayon and hair a peculiar greenish-yellow shade (I didn’t recognize him as one of my dead buds until I woke from the dream.) The strange cat (who turned out to be a dead running mate) said, “That guy was going to pick your blouse’s pocket” — which was a bizarre thing to say because my money was in my bra. I guess if you’re on the guard for pickpockets, you’re bound to notice an asshole’s hand in your bra. Of course it becomes odder still because I don’t keep my money in my bra in the waking life. My corpse of a pal went back to his very busy job of serving tables, and by this time, I was good and lost. I no longer paid attention to the trappings of wealth strung around the necks of party-goers. Now my mission became getting away from the celebrants, for if I reached a less crowded environment, I could think my way out of the problem.
If someone else had the dream, I would say, “It sounds to me as though you’re looking for your sense of home. The journey has been fun but now you’re ready to come down and hit ground.” Either that, or I’d say, “That’s what you get for listening to Selena Fox’s podcast on home blessings.” Because it’s me, however, I’ll take the interpretation of “You carry your riches with you. Your thick butt just hasn’t figured that out.” Oh, yeah, and if it was my dead, ex-bud who stopped in for a visit, I’ll say, “Damn, you caught me by surprise. Out of all of us, you had the most talent, the most going for you. I heard people say how talented you were. You never gave yourself a chance. Why didn’t you talk to me, scream at me if you had to? Why couldn’t you have trusted me?”