Dream of: 09 July 1994 "Outside The Book Store"

I was in book store, standing in front of a rack of perhaps 40-50 paperback books. I had recently been buying Pulitzer prize-winning novels, and thought perhaps all the books in front of me had won Pulitzer prizes. After quickly scanning over the covers and noticing books by Ken Follet and Judith Krantz, I concluded they weren't Pulitzer prize winners. In fact I only saw one book, Breathing Lessons by Anne Tyler, which I thought had won a Pulitzer prize.


In another area of the store I found rows and rows of books on shelves. I honed in on an area of mostly fantasy books; I recalled that I'd been here once before. I had taken a group of books by a particular female author and put them on a separate shelf from where I had found them. Although I hadn't read any of the female author's books, I thought the books dealt with fantasies in prehistoric times. Now I found a thick paperback by that author, and thought I would like to have it. The price of $2.50 was written on a white tag stuck on the front cover. I noticed my initials "SC" also on the tag.

The cover was loose from the book, and in fact the cover finally came off. I decided to leave the cover of the book on the shelf, and take the book to the front counter as if it had no price on it. I would like to have the cover, but I thought the cashier would probably sell me the coverless book for only $1.

I walked to the front counter where two men were standing. I handed the book to one man and asked how much it cost. He looked over the book and said since the book didn't have a price, it would cost the regular price of $5. I expressed disappointment, and told him I couldn't find any other books by that author. He assured me that indeed other books by that author were on the shelf, and he volunteered to walk back and show me where the books were.

As we walked back together toward the books, I hoped he wouldn't find the cover which I had left lying there. He might have questions about why my initials were on the price tag, questions which I didn't know how to answer. I was relived when we reached the spot and he didn't come across the cover. He busied himself looking for the other books by the author, books which I had already put in another spot. Finally he reached a shelf of hardback books where I thought I had put the books, but he likewise couldn't find them there. He seemed puzzled when he couldn't find the books, and he continued shuffling through the books. As he did so, I noticed a little box of five Doonesbury paper backs similar to a box which I thought I already had. I might want to look at those later.


I was standing in front of a book store with a group of perhaps 10 people, apparently waiting for the store to open. We were all standing around a car parked in front of the store. I recalled having seen most of the people before, and remembered that they all seemed odd, as if they were each set apart in their own separate worlds, unwilling or unable to communicate with others.

A woman probably in her late 20s was standing on my right. She was writing a letter, and had just completed the first sentence. I peeked at the letter and was surprised to see that it was being written in French. The sentence ended with the words "contre volonte"; I interpreted the sentence as saying that she was writing the letter against her will. I might like to speak French with her; but she probably wouldn't speak with me.

Suddenly someone walked out of the book store and announced that it was closed. As the people began to disperse, a man on my right also said something, and I realized he could also speak French.

I was a bit confused because the others seemed to think it was natural to be waiting for the store to close, instead of for it to open, and they began to leave as if it were quite natural. Still befuddled, I boarded the car we had been standing around, having concluded it was mine, and I started to drive off. Only when I started moving forward did I realize I was on the edge of a ledge; I shuddered as the car lurched off the side. Fortunately the ledge was probably only five or six feet high, and the car fell with a thud to the ground. I was unsure whether anything had been damaged or whether the car would move; but I had the feeling it would.


I was driving a car with someone else beside me, perhaps Buckner or Anderson. I had returned for a visit to Portsmouth, and the person was telling me that Duff (with whom I first came in contact in 1964 when we were both in the seventh grade) was going to have a party that night – that I should go.


I was sitting in a room with some people, talking with Ramo. I was still trying to decide whether I should go to Duff's party; I was trying to get more particulars about the party from Ramo. Ramo brought up an incident which had happened many years before. We had driven about 100 miles to another town, and had then gone to Cincinnati. I recalled the night as having been quite bizarre and told the others here that it had been the worst night of my life.

I recalled that after that night, Ramo had always seemed to shun me. I now thought perhaps it had been because he hadn't realized that that night – long ago – had also been painful for me, and that he had thought I had enjoyed myself. I was glad I was finally setting the record straight.

I continued to gather information about Duff's house. I learned that no one actually lived in the house, but that people only came there for parties. I was also told that no drugs could be used at the house, that any drugs must be consumed before arriving at the house. Apparently the house had rooms where guests could stay overnight, or even for an extended visit. It seemed interesting, but I was still uncertain I would go.

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