First, a quick note on that last paragraph; I was just re-reading it before starting in on this day's tale when I noticed that there was quite a bit of "stuff" in there. Funny word, "stuff." It feels distinctly juvenile, and yet its utility is very wide. Of course, it is bad form to use any word so often -- I count three uses in that sentence (counting the parenthetical comment) -- but when one is just throwing thoughts down, I suppose such overuse is necessary; it is the meaning that counts, much more than the presentation. Still, it is noticeable, and I cringe a little at what I have written. Ah, well. Perhaps the only reason I notice it now is because it is a little later in the morning; I have been awake, and have even attended a class; surely this provides some advantage to simply ripping off words to describe anything.
But, then, maybe not. Because I am writing about my dreams, it is best to hammer them down into words as soon as possible after dreaming them -- nearly everyone is familiar with the flightiness of dreams. Luckily, before I trotted off to class I shot off these words, so as to better remember the dream when I returned.
[person's name]; [another name], boat; immigrants; shotgun; father; passage (watch;time); sonny,cher, field; eddie murphy; psmith; earth; fire religion; gerber; [name of my RA]; [name of my stepfather]; this woman
Perhaps this will make more sense (to you, dear reader) as I go on.
The first piece I remember (and it is, regrettably, detached from the rest of the dream, perhaps separated by my alarm clock) is a bit strange, and sad, and reflective -- but kind of cool, too. I had some sort of telepathic connection with that guy I knew in high school who worked with me on the story we were writing and whose sister I have been fairly attracted to; I asked him, first of all, how we were communicating like this; he replied that it sometimes happens with him. I was rather excited to contact him after all this time, and asked him how we might talk, later -- ok, here I see a slight incongruity: the contact also had as its nature something over ICQ or AIM or the like -- and he was rather evasive, saying that he never checks his e-mail or whatnot. It was all a bit depressing, since I really would like to talk with him again sometime, and that brief contact was rather frustrating in its, well, briefness.
Editor's note: Later on I did e-mail him, and after two exchanges he seems to have disappeared again. Hope he contacts me again.
Next I was at some sort of dock; it was like an air show, but with boats. One of the freshmen on the floor was there, and so was a fellow junior (from the floor). We were watching the boats. After some period of time we were inside eating or watching a movie or some such thing; I asked the people in charge about their duties: they were supposed to be watching the water. The response was, "Nothing happens here." Just then, of course, something happened. A boat was under attack; we went out to save it and found that a ramshackle boat full of immigrants (a la Cuban refugees) was trying to board the boat. All the navy people were dead, but we picked up the immigrants for humane reasons. Because of the anti-immigration laws, we couldn't let them into the country (actually we were some sort of territory somewhere next to the Philippines), so we let them go (on the other side of the border).
Later that evening, we were back in the lodge. My dad appeared somewhere around now. We were eating dinner when we noticed one of the immigrants lurking around with a shotgun. At least, it seemed to operate like a shotgun, but it fired more like a rifle (no scattered shot). Dad refused to acknowledge him. He fired into our dining room, missing everybody. Dad noticed the trouble he had reloading the gun and went out to show him how to do it properly. After demonstrating, he came back inside and resumed eating as though nothing were wrong. The immigrant (or perhaps I ought to call him an emigrant; he hadn't entered the country yet) took aim at him and then, after a tense moment, set it down. After that the others came to meet us, deciding to make peace or some such thing. We had sympathy for them, and I explained how hard it would be for them to go to the US proper (where they might receive citizenship). The Pacific was obviously too long for them to cross, and I went into a long description of how they might cross Asia and Europe. All the while my father kept asking me what time it was; I would check my watch and tell him.
A large viewscreen appeared on one of the walls, and animated the path they would have to take; I somehow controlled it, because it followed my speech. There was some nonsense about taking rivers as far as Italy, where they would have to walk again. Here I said, "You might want to just stay in Italy; it's a nice place," but I wasn't sure if Italy was taking immigrants these days, and I qualified my suggestion with that.
Somehow, now, I was in Italy with two of the emigrants; a boy and a girl, both a little younger than I. We were in a town square that was being prepared for some sort of dinner party. The boy took something from one of the food carts, but I didn't scold him. The kids ran around in the square and were having a wonderful time. The girl (or was it the boy?) made some comment to the effect that when we got back to the states (I was their rich benefactor now) I could buy a field for them to run around in, and I could name the boy Sonny and the girl Cher. Somehow that made sense in the context of running around in a field.
Eddie Murphy was one of the servants. We recognized each other as old friends, and I asked him how his marriage with [name forgotten] was getting on. He made some sort of face, saying that she was nothing, and that he was glad he was over that infatuation. Now, he said, he had discovered what truly made him happy. It was some sort of religion that I later saw a brochure for. The brochure said, "The Earth, Fire Religion, Gerber" and was, I suppose, supposed to be very deep indeed.
I went to the bathroom, and noticed on the phone (yes, there was a phone; it was by the sink) a sticker that said "For Spiritual Counseling, call [full name of my stepfather]." Below, where his phone number had been, the sticker was ripped away and over it written in blue (or perhaps red) marker "otherwise, call this woman" with her number beneath. The implication was fairly clear (particularly as it was men's bathroom graffiti) what the woman was supposed to offer.
And, there you go. Mysterious words explained (at least, to some degree), that is all there was to the dream. Or, at least, that is all I remember.