Dream of: 06 November 1997 "Remembering A Dream"
Anderson (about 25 years old) and I had been walking around Portsmouth. As evening fell and the sky grew dark, I knew I was going to need a place to spend the night, but I was unsure where I was going to go. Anderson finally led me to a white two-story frame house where he said his brother was living. I recognized the neighborhood. I knew that in general, the better homes in Portsmouth were located in the hilly area, farthest away from the Ohio River, while more modest homes were located closer to River. This particular neighborhood was right at the base of the hilly area, about half-way between the hilltop and the river, just a few blocks down the hill from Portsmouth's Greenlawn Cemetery.
By the time we had reached the house and walked up onto the porch, it was already dark outside, and no lights were on inside the house. I thought Anderson's brother had a room on the second floor, but no light was on in his room. Sensing that it might not be appropriate to intrude on Anderson's brother, I told Anderson I thought I would simply go to my mother's home and spend the night there. I said, "I'll go to my mother's." I suggested to Anderson that he could even come with me, and spend the night at my mother's, if he wanted.
But before we could make a decision, I began hearing voices emanating from the inside of the house. Listening closely, I recognized the voices were in another language, and I said to Anderson, "They're speaking French."
Suddenly a flood of 15-20 people surged through the front door. I heard Anderson mutter the word, "Amerikanishe," apparently thinking the people were German, apparently trying to tell them we were Americans. Before I knew what had happened, the people had all loaded up on a bus, and had somehow carried me on with them. Anderson, however, wasn't with me, and I concluded he must have managed to go on into the house.
The bus looked somewhat like a subway bus inside. With seats along the side facing toward the middle, and a wide row in the middle for people to stand. As the bus began moving, I looked the people over. They were all dressed in heavy winter clothes. Obviously they were all foreigners who had come to Portsmouth for some reason. Some were speaking English, although most of them were speaking French. Gradually I realized most of them appeared to be intoxicated on alcohol
; they were talking about drinking, and some could hardly stand up. However, in the background, I noticed a few of them weren't drunk, and those few were looking quite critically at the ones who were besotted.I was sitting on one of the side seats, looking toward the center. The fellow seated on my right was soused, leaning over on my shoulder. Finally he toppled off and sprawled out in the floor right at my feet. He appeared unconscious, and I reflected that it would be easy for someone to pick his pockets, although I had no intention of doing such a thing.
Breaking out of my distraction, I realized the bus had already traveled all the way to the neighboring town of New Boston. Now I was so far from Portsmouth, I began wondering how I was going to return. As I pondered, an old memory began returning to me. I recalled that Birdie used to live in Sciotoville, the small town just on the other side of New Boston. I remembered I used to go on foot from Portsmouth to Sciotoville - probably ten miles - to visit Birdie. Then I would run all the back to Portsmouth.
I recalled that I had made the trip to see Birdie numerous times, and that she would always be glad to see me. Once our visit was finished, I would always turn and run the ten miles back to Portsmouth.
The more I thought about it, however, the more I wondered if my memory were accurate. I seemed to recall the events, but it seemed so unlikely that I would have actually run so far. Even though my image of the event was vivid, it was possible I had only dreamed such a thing, and now I was just remembering the dream. I could even see myself, wearing white shorts and a white tee shirt, lean and strong, running down the streets of New Boston. It was hard to believe. I certainly couldn't do anything like that now. If I had made the run, what had happened to all that energy? Clearly I no longer had it.
Copyright 2001 by luciddreamer2k@gmail.com
