Dream of:22 March 1997 (2) "Mexican Trip"
I had stopped by the home of a woman living in a sparsely-populated remote village in southern Mexico. Although Carolina and I had also been living in the village for quite some time, and I had been aware of the woman's presence in the village, I had never spoken to the woman before. I was anxious to talk with the woman and find out a little about her, but no sooner had she stepped up to me – a slender woman (probably in her 30s) – when we were interrupted by a flood of Dalmatian puppies which began running around our legs, and all our attention was turned to the puppies.
I knelt down as the puppies earnestly began jumping on me, demanding to be petted. It looked as if there must have been nine or ten puppies, and clearly they belonged to the woman. The puppies reminded me of my pet Dalmatian Picasso and my pet Dalmatian Chaucer; some especially looked like Picasso when he had been a pup.
I picked one of the puppies up and held it in the palm of my hand, petting it until it lay on its side and closed its eyes. I told the woman the puppies certainly did like to be petted. She said they were happy if they were just touched. From what she said, I realized since the woman had so many puppies, she wasn't able to pet them all very much, and the puppies were starved for affection. Thus it gave them great pleasure if someone would just touch them once in a while. That made me feel somewhat sorry for the puppies because they didn't get enough attention. I didn't bring up the fact that my own Dalmatians were spoiled rotten and were constantly demanding petting and attention, which they received in abundance. I also didn't bring up the fact that my dogs were so spoiled they even had to sleep in the bed with Carolina or me.
I did however tell the woman a little story, about another woman who had owned 26 Dalmatians. I told the woman I wasn't going into all the details, but simply that before Carolina and I had flown down to Mexico, while we had been waiting for our plane, we had gone to the house of the woman who had had all the Dalmatians. In my opinion that had been far too many dogs for one person to try to take care of. And in fact, although I didn't say so, I thought all the puppies which this woman had were too many for one person.
The woman also continued talking about the puppies, and began discussing a problem she had. I didn't completely understand what she was saying, but finally she brought out a large can, something like an old-fashioned milk can about a meter tall, and she took off the lid. I looked inside and saw what appeared to be tomato-based vegetable soup. But I was rather disgusted when the woman dipped out some of the soup, showing me that the soup was filled with squirming little white maggots.
In my confusion, I managed to drop into the maggoty soup can the little puppy which I was still holding. I quickly reached into the soup, grabbed the puppy by the neck and pulled it out. The little thing was only about 7-10 centimeters long, and I was afraid I might have grabbed it too hard. But as I began cleaning it off, the puppy appeared to be unharmed. My only concern was that some of the specks of vegetables which I wiped from the puppy were now lying on the floor, and I was afraid the other puppies might try to eat them. I tried to push the vegetable pieces under a door so the puppies couldn't get to them.
When I looked back up, I saw the woman had taken the can of soup away, and I thought she must be in the next room. I was ready to leave, and I stood back up from my kneeling position. As I did so I noticed a white paper plate with a few crumbs of cake on it. I didn't remember having eaten any cake, but at the same time the plate seemed to be mine. I decided to go ahead and give the crumbs to the puppies, and I began scrapping them off onto the floor. But to my surprise, as the puppies went for the crumbs, a full-sized Dalmatian ran up and began trying to get at the crumbs. I motioned at the big dog to go away. The big dog reacted in a totally unexpected way: it began cringing and making a plaintive moan like I had never heard before from a dog. Now I also began to feel sorry for it.
I was alone in the house where Carolina and I were living in the village. I was thinking back about my encounter with the woman. One thing in particular was bringing the woman to mind: the pants which I was wearing. I had on a pair of new blue jeans which the woman had given me. I noticed the blue jeans had a small red tag, the kind of tag which is on the back pocket of Levi blue jeans. Only these weren't Levi's, and the tag was on the front leg instead of the back pocket.
I was uncertain if I should keep the pants or return them. It occurred to me the woman had purposely given me the pants so I would be forced to come back and see her again to return them. That would mean the woman must have liked me and wanted to see me again.
When I thought back about the time I had spent with the woman, I realized I hadn't told her anything about myself. However it occurred to me that my not talking about myself might have been precisely the reason the woman had liked me. The main thing was that I had been nice, and I hadn't been phony. I had especially not been phony by going into a lot of detail of what I did with my life, such as talking about what kind of job I had and how much money I made.
Of course talking about what I did with my life wouldn't be that easy anyway. It was difficult for me to explain to people that I wrote my dreams and that I intended to publish books of dreams. Especially since no one had ever done what I intended to do. I felt much trepidation at the task before me. However, when I thought about it, it made sense. I was doing what artists throughout history had done. I was seeking to find expression, through an artistic medium, for the same issues which had always plagued and inspired artists. It was continually becoming easier for me to see the value of what I was doing, as compared to someone who lived a normal work-a-day life to make a dollar and support himself and his family. However it was still difficult for me to talk to someone about what I was doing, especially without sounding phony, and I was glad I hadn't brought up the subject the first time I had met the woman. Perhaps if I met her again, however, I would talk with her about what I did.
Dream Epics Home Page
Copyright 2009 by firstname.lastname@example.org