I don’t have them consistently, but never go too long without a real eyebrow-raiser.
Last night I had one of those Dreams That Won’t Quit–the kind that is broken into segments by brief periods of wakefulness accompanied by a modicum of bleary “what the hell?” thinking. At the outset, I found myself in Boston, sitting on a giant trestle situated in the Charles River and facing east. And when I say “in,” I am not actually intended to convey “across.” This trestle–and there were others like it to the left, skimming along the river’s northern shore, as well as several side-like exits to the southern shore–ran longitudinally near the center of the river itself all the way to Boston Harbor (which appeared to be at least two miles away) and for some indeterminate distance behind me.
Seated in front of me was a certain lady friend. Behind me was my dad. For whatever reason I knew this unlikely trio was on its way to the Boston Museum of Science.
That the Boston landscape had been rendered as a cross between wherever the Jetsons live and the Wild West did not affect the fact that the dream only got interesting when the track beneath us began to move, treadmill-style, toward the west (in other words, opposite the direction we were facing and needed to go). As it turned out, the surface of this track was for some reason slick enough to cause my father to fall forward rather than move with the track itself, and when he did, I in turn fell forward into my certain lady friend, who then fell sideways into the Charles.
My father and I managed to secure purchase on the track and moved westward with it at a furious pace as my certain lady friend plunged below the surface. I felt palpable panic by dream standards until I saw her head pop above the surface. As what I could see of her receded from view, I saw a pair of police boats emerge from the left and speed toward the beleaguered lady. At the very moment I saw that she had been rescued, I tumbled toward the right (why didn’t these things come equipped with safety rails?) and down one of the slide-like constructs bound for the southern shore, presumably toward the vicinity of the Fens.
But when I landed (on my feet, natch), I wasn’t in the Fens. I was in some dense and unlikely jungle that boasted creatures ranging from oversized lions to penguins who could fly as adeptly as the most venerable hock. They failed to notice me, so I said “fuck this shit,” and wandered deeper into the jungle, determined to find Storrow Drive and ideally an MBTA station. Then I woke up for good.
I won’t look for any of these niceties on my next trip to Beantown.