The Mobile City, A March 1st Dream
Last night I dreamed of belonging to a rich and vibrant community. The community was comprised of many faces I’ve never before seen in my awakened state of consciousness and, thus, didn’t recognize. We, the community, were preparing, collectively, for a great transition. There was a sense of excitement; jubilation almost. I had the feeling that this transition would somehow be a vehicle to freedom. And it was; a literal vehicle, a tour bus the size of a small town. We were preparing to board it. I’m not sure where we were going. No one ever said. Once we were all on board the bus and watching the scenery through its windows whip past us, tension began to build, inexplicably, within our community. The tension peaked during some kind of group dinner. We were all seated at an extremely long-so long, I couldn’t see the end of it- table. I’m not sure if the food we ate was prepared by me or by my mom. I felt confused about that in my dream, as well. A man I was sitting across from spit in his food, which deeply angered me. I stood up from the table and proclaimed, loudly, that I would not allow him to disrespect my mother and demanded that he exit the bus. Everyone was silent. It was never explicitly stated in my dream but, somehow, I understood that asking someone to leave the bus wasn’t in alignment with our community’s values. This was a first. No one had ever been asked to leave. The man who sat across from me, initially unrecognizable, morphed into my mother’s brother; my Uncle Ken Ken, a sweet and good-hearted crack fiend whose addiction I know better than I know him. He stood up, packed his things, and left the bus. Afterward, the deafening silence remained.
The spirit of our community was plagued by exhaustion and sorrow. A woman that I met while Kristina and I were on tour, Shirley, sat in an armchair next to mine and leaned her head against my shoulder. She was tired. I was tired.