Mark Atwood (fallenpegasus) wrote,
Mark Atwood

A dream, from the night before last

I am riding on the back of a high truck or bus, open to the air, on the back edge, about 4 meters off the ground. It is a very bright day, I am wearing closely fitting sunglasses, which gives everything a highly saturated over exposed look, and yet I can see with very high contrast small changes in color, so it is extremely easy to see surface flaws, patches, repairs, in facades of the buildings and monumental statues lineing the wide street. The architecture of most of the buildings we are passing is a mix of monumental art deco, and monumental cathedrals, and collossal statues many stories tall, the statues in a mixed neo-classical and art deco style.

My wallet and passport are sitting in my lap, and I cannot move my arms. I notice the vibration of the travel is causing them to slide off, towards my knees, where they will fall off down to the road. I am trying to unbind my arms, when it happens. They fall, hit the roadway below, open up, and start to spill, receeding behind us.

I do manage to get unstuck then, and jump forward and bang on the side of the drivers cab, yelling. They immediately understand what has happened, and execute a perfect screeting hairpin turn at full speed, to go back. The street is 5 wide lanes wide, and we are in the middle one. And then I notice it's a one way street, and there is a fair amount of now oncoming traffic. With much rapid lane changing and squealing tires, a number of collisions are avoided.

The bus comes to a stop on the road, and I hop down, and see my wallet stuff has blown off to the side, and I go to it and gather it all up. I have to pick it out of piles of other litter, mostly made of other dropped tourist stuff, such as scarves and papers. i'm in the a cavernous nook in the side of the entry lobby of one of the cathederals as I do this.

A friend of mine (who I know in the non-dream world) walks over to make sure I found it and that I am ok. Was she on the bus, too? I am not sure. She is dressed in one of her closely fitting long coats. She picks one of her scarves out of the piles of stuff, with long stripes of pink and brown, and knots it around her neck.

I am reading a book, sometimes it is is prose, soemtimes it is a graphic novel, but finely done with a steel pen, I know I have seen the style before, and sometimes I am inside the story. There is a heavy broad man, drawn in this style, a guard of some sort. He thinks I cannot trick him, but he does get tricked, and drinks the draught, and falls asleep, and the person at the point of view gets away

There is a small cluster of threadbare old velvet theater seats, in this cathedral, and I find myself sitting on them, with an old friend from high school sitting next to me, and some friends of his that I do not know. I show them the novel I am reading. They show me a thick graphic novel of a modern re imaging of Clifford the Big Red Dog. It is not for SFW.

One of the friends is ladeling out soup. One someone has a tray, others have bowls, but I do not. I cup my hands together, and he pours a ladle of the soup into them. It is heavy with rice, and smells of chicken broth and miso. It is hot, but I don't feel any pain from it. I hold my hands over the guy's tray, who had thought it was funny that I had to hold the soup in my hands, so as it spills between my fingers, it makes a mess of his food instead of my clothes. I lean over, and take a bite and then another of the soup and rice, and then let the rest spill onto his tray.

I wake up, leaning back in this airplane seat, with my hands in my lap, my hat covering my hands, and a sleeping mask over my eyes.

I decide to record what I can remember.

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