Saturday, December 13, 2014

In my dream, part 55.02

In my dream, I am at a banquet meeting in a fancy corporate dining hall that reminds me more of one that might be found in a castle. I am at the head of the table and the department director is sitting next to me on my right. He is dark-haired, cut short, with a pointed, almost devilish-looking beard or goatee. Another, older man is standing behind us, giving a presentation. He is a tall man wearing a gray suit. As he is speaking, he puts a small salad plate in front of the director. It is full of colorful food, like cherry peppers, only smaller. As the man in the gray suit continues to speak, the director eats. When the director finishes eating, the man in the gray suit removes the plate.

Later, as the man in the gray suit continues to speak, he puts down another plate, this time of sliced pickles, in front of the director. Then one in front of me. Then the servers place one in front of everyone else in the hall. We all begin to eat. They are sweet pickles, like the bread and butter variety of which I am most fond.

As everyone eats, the man announces: "This is a sorting round!"

I suddenly realize this meeting is to determine who will be dismissed from the company. The room bursts into a rumble of excited exclamations and conversation. Then the man in gray says, "There is something that you should remember!"

I look over my shoulder at him, then at the director, then back to him and say, "One of us has had one more course than the others." The director's eyes bulge a little and the man in gray smiles.

"Tell them," he says, nodding to the rest of the people, still abuzz. "Tell them," he says again, loudly enough to get their attention.

"One of us has had one more course than the others," I say again, loudly.

The room bursts into outrage. Someone shouts that it was someone in particular, not the director, but I don't catch the name. Several men stand up from their places around the table and bolt from the room through the doors behind the foot of the table. They are going to another building on campus.


I long ago learned that if I remember a dream, my sleeping self is trying to send my waking self a message. There is something I've discovered that I need to know.

I don't know what to make of this, except that there seems to be some kind of "moment of truth" coming -- probably in my job -- and I should be watching out for it.

Monday, December 1, 2014

In my dream, part 55.01

In my dream, I am in the cafeteria at a mall and my friend Aaron is giving me a bunch of hand me down clothes. They are size XXL, but Aaron has never, ever, in the history of the world been that size in real life. I unfold a maroon polo and see on the black tag in the collar that its size is X(G). As I'm refolding a pair of khaki trousers, Stephen Fry and his wife come up to the table at which I'm sitting. I tell him that I hope he doesn't mind that Aaron gave me the clothes that he had given to Aaron.

Later, I'm entering the mall through one of the anchor stores -- it's a swanky store like Macys or Bloomingdales -- with my boyfriend on my way to work. He is wearing a white shirt and dress pants and has short blonde hair. (I have no idea who this man is in real life.) I walk past a mirror and see that I am wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with a silver name tag that identifies me as "John" and "Assistant Manager" of Musicland. As we're about to cross out of the store into the mall proper, I remind him that he will have to come pick me up after work at 12:45 in the morning. As we part, he turns around and walks back to through the store the way we came. He seems aggravated.

I walk down the mall; it is more like a library or city hall common area. As I start to pass a group of people sitting on benches on the left side of the mall, I recoginze one of the men as a former President of the United States. He is aged and has yellowed, stained teeth. He speaks with a Southern accent. I can't seem to place him though, eventually settling on President Humphrey for his identity.

At the far end of the mall is a throng of people listening to a man with a long beard, in black suit and black broad-rimmed hat speaking. He is talking about a murder trial and is remarking to the crowd -- who are apparently reporters and who are dressed for cold weather in 1940s fashion -- about how it didn't make sense for the murderer to use wax as the substance would easily imprison evidence.


I must be losing my mind.