Dream of:20 November 2006 "A Thoughtful Missive"
As I was walking around a very nice big house (one room of which contained some statues of Buddha), I began finding dead bodies of black people. Soon the police and many other people showed up, but no one asked me why I was there. It was determined that there were 15 bodies altogether. I hadn't seen any blood, and I thought the dead people might have died from a drug overdose from bad dope. However, it looked as if the police had determined that all the dead people had been murdered. Apparently someone had shot them all. When a friendly detective (who looked like the character Sgt. Dignam, played by Mark Wahlberg in the movie The Departed) showed up, I began following him around from room to room, and he allowed me to watch him conduct his investigation. I commented that this would be the "crime of the year." Another black detective said no, that another crime was going to be the crime of the year, but that this one would be close. I finally concluded a drug dealer must have lived in the house and had made enough money from drugs to afford the impressive house. All the dead black people must have known each other and had come to the house to use drugs.
As the police were wrapping up their investigation, I suddenly began thinking I would like to write a journalistic story about the crime. I had never done such a thing, but this was my chance, since I was there to witness the crime scene. I could watch every step of the investigation, how it proceeded from beginning to end. I mentioned something about the story to the detective and he seemed to like the idea. The story would take a lot of work and would be different from anything I had ever done. I thought I might like to do that.
When I began talking with someone else about a story, around 50 people suddenly gathered around me in a circle and all of them told me to tell the story. I protested that I wasn't a story teller and I didn't want to do it. I didn't really know how to tell stories. Finally, however, with everyone gathered around me, I thought I would try, even though I knew I was probably going to get in trouble by telling the story. I decided I would just start a story, go along, and take it wherever the story led.
I told them the first thing I wanted to tell them was that I wrote my dreams. I told them I had been writing for a very long time, over 30 years, since 1972. I then told them I had had a dream that these people had been killed. Some of the people gasped when they heard that. I then said, "After I had this dream that these people'd been killed, I ended up here. I came here because of the dream." I added that I had had a "prescient dream" and I told them I was interested in prescient dreams.
I knew my words sounded incredible and I knew I would immediately be suspected of having been somehow involved in the murders, but as I continued talking, parts of my dream began returning to me. I told them I now remembered coming there. I said I had been on a levy and I remembered falling down the levy. After falling down the levy, I had walked to the house. I explained that I had showed up at the house as a result of having had the dream.
The detective was now looking at me very suspiciously, obviously suspecting that I was somehow involved with the murders. I, however, knew I was in no way involved.
I mentioned other similarities between my dream and the actual murder scene.
I then said, "The detective took me into a room and showed me a bag filled with little pieces of dope about the size of dog biscuits." I told them the detective had said the pieces of dope were cocaine. I said, "They weighed one point eight pounds."
I told them there had been a second large transparent bag which contained smaller pieces of cocaine. The detective had laid the second bag on a table and I had even held it. At first I thought the dope was heroin because it was brown, but the detective had said it was cocaine because it was more than five years old. Suddenly, however, I couldn't remember whether that scene had happened in my dream or whether the scene had happened in reality. I looked around at the people's faces and asked them if something had ever happened to them and they couldn't remember for sure whether it had been a dream or reality. I remained in a quandary trying to remember if the scene had been in a dream or had been in reality.
I mentioned some other points which had been similar in the dream and in the actual crime scene. Finally the people seemed to have heard enough. Uncertain whether I would be arrested, I asked, "Am I under arrest? Can I go home?"
The police were among those listening to me, but no one stepped up to arrest me. I finally said, "I just thank God that I'm able to go home now."
My sleeping bag was lying on the floor next to me. I picked up the bag, rolled it up, and tucked it under my arm. A woman who seemed like a combination of my ex-wives Carolina and Louise was standing close to me. I thought she was going to be extremely angry, but she wasn't. When I asked her what she thought about what I had said, she said she thought I was "a thoughtful missive." I took that to mean that she thought I was someone through whom messages were sent. It looked as if she were finally beginning to understand a little the role of dreams in my life.
As she and I started to walk out of the house, the detective looked at me, but he didn't arrest me. It looked as if I would be allowed to leave.
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