Dream of: 26 January 1990 "Blue Georgia Sky"

I was riding on the back of a bus with a group of people (most in our 20s and 30s) who apparently were traveling across the country, seeking adventure. Some were talking about various matters. Part of the time, as I would listen to them talk, it was as if I would first imagine part of the conversation, and then the conversation would take place. For instance I imagined that someone would talk about how the bus would go out of its way to take people to where they wanted to go if their destination wasn't far off the route. And then someone began talking about it. A map was produced to show how the bus would only go off the route to one side or the other, depending on the direction it was traveling.

The trip itself seemed much like a thought in my mind, even though I was actually in the bus. I thought how I would probably meet interesting people and have exciting experiences. It seemed as if the journey would take us into both Canada and Mexico.

I was standing up listening to a conversation between a couple fellows on the bus, when I realized one was Weinstein. The fellow with whom he was talking was also from Portsmouth, and I thought to myself that we made up the Ohio contingent on the bus. I heard Weinstein say something about some episode in his life when he had pretended he was prejudiced against someone. But now with a rather angry tone in his voice, he said he hadn't been pretending. Although I was standing close to Weinstein and I looked straight at him, he looked away from me and he wouldn't meet my eyes. He seemed to have grown older since I had last seen him, and he seemed unhappy. Since he didn't seem to want to speak, I left him alone.

Someone spoke about marijuana. Another person began criticizing the first person for having brought some marijuana on the bus. But the first person maintained that it was acceptable to smoke on this bus and that it even improved the atmosphere. I immediately began thinking I would like to smoke some marijuana, and I even began thinking that I had already smoked some. I looked down at my shoes, having little now to say and wondering if the marijuana was dulling my mind.

Someone turned on a radio and I began listening intently to the intriguing folksy lyrics. They seemed to fit in with the atmosphere. The last lines I heard were, "Under the blue Georgia sky, I fell below the sun. It no longer seemed to matter how or where I died."

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