Dream of: 29 October 1997 "Masquerade"
I had been living for a short while with my aunt Jesse (the wife of my mother's brother, Liston). My mother was also staying for a while in Jesse's spacious and comfortable two-story house. However the circumstances of my sojourn in the house were exceedingly peculiar: I was pretending that I was one of Jesse's own sons. I was flabbergasted that the ruse had been working.
I must have been in my late teens, and I vaguely resembled one of Jesse's sons who was the same age. We both had brown hair, the same height and build, and similar facial features. I would have surely expected that Jesse should have been able to distinguish me from her own son, but she hadn't. Several times already I had been with Jesse, and each time she had been duped into believing that I was her son. It just seemed to me that there should be something special between a mother and her son so the mother would always recognize her own son. I felt sure that no one would be able to deceive my mother in that way. But Jesse had been fooled; and I decided I was just going to continue living in disguise in her house for a while.
I had recently acquired a small amount of marijuana, enough for a couple joints. The urge to smoke was upon me, but I needed some cigarette papers. Thinking that I knew where some papers could be found in an upstairs bedroom, I hurried up the wide winding stairs, found the room for which I was looking, and entered. I carefully shut the door behind me and proceeded to look around the room for the papers, causing some slight disorder in the process.
My search was soon interrupted – I looked up to see that another of Jesse's sons had entered the room: a tall, lean, black-haired fellow, not more that 18 years old. He was angry at my pretending to be his brother, and he wasted no time in challenging my charade. I was surprised by his attitude. I had assumed that he already knew of my masquerade and that he had gone along with it. I had been completely unaware that he was so troubled by my performance.
His ire quickly escalated until he actually attacked me. We grappled with each other, rolling onto the floor, neither able to gain the advantage. The struggle ended quickly with neither of us being hurt. We both stood back up, and he quickly exited the room. I hoped that would be the end of it, that he would have purged his system of his enmity toward me, and that we could all continue in peace.
But no sooner had I turned back to my search for the cigarette papers, than again I heard someone at the door. I looked up and saw that the fellow had returned, this time with Jesse, my mother, and one of Jesse's daughters, in tow. It was obvious: the jig was up. Jesse was scrutinizing my face, trying to clear the fumulus in her mind, dazed, trying to discern who I really was. I felt hard at the son who had exposed me. I hadn't thought he would actually go that far. But what was done was done, and there was no recourse but to admit the truth.
I still had a moment of angst, as I suddenly remembered my original reason for coming up there, to look for cigarette papers. I agonized that I might have laid my little baggie of marijuana out where everyone could see it. I noticed a crumpled page of a newspaper lying on the floor and I worried that the marijuana might be under the paper. But then I touched my left pants pocket with my hand, and I could feel the little pouch of pot, safe and secure inside my pocket. My anxiety abated.
Jesse's daughter (a winsome lass in her late teens) strode around the room, examining the disorder. I was surprised when she accusatorily informed me that this was her room. I quickly apologized that I would have never entered the room if I had known that it was hers. I pointed out that no damage had really been done, with one possible exception. In the middle of the room was a set of wooden shelves, with sundry knickknacks crowded onto it. On the very top shelf, even higher than my head, was a gaudy flowery ornament which somewhat resembled an ornately built water well with artificial flowers growing out of it. The object contained a device which, when turned on, allowed water to spout a few centimeters into the air. Somehow – either during my search of the room, or during the ruckus with the brother – the spring had been tripped and water was now shooting out of the ornament. I was afraid it might be broken and couldn't be turned off. I pointed it out to the daughter, again extending my apologies.
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