Dream of:19 October 2011 "Comic Book Dreams"
My father and I were looking at an empty office which we were thinking of renting for some kind of business. I had a machine which I wanted to hook up, but I was unable to do so in the empty office. Since the office was in a brick building which contained other offices, I thought I might be able to hook up the machine in one of the neighboring offices, so I walked outside, went to the corner office next door, and walked in.
A desk and various other items were in the neighboring office, but I couldn't tell for sure if the office were actually occupied. It looked as if it weren't being used. I found a folder which contained pictures of baseball players (about twice as big as regular baseball cards). Each picture was encased in a cellophane bag. I was interested in the bags because I had some things which needed to be bagged up and the bags were just the right side. I took one of the pictures out and looked on the back to see if it had statistics like those found on baseball cards, but it didn't. I thought I could probably take the whole folder if I wanted, but I wasn't interested in it, so I laid it back down.
Continuing to look, I found some little toys on the ground. One was an unopened McDonald happy meal toy which contained a plastic figurine of a Star Wars star trooper. I immediately wanted it. By now, I thought the things I was finding belonged to the son of the man who owned this whole building. I knew I shouldn't take the happy meals toy, and I vacillated about purloining it. In the process, I lost the happy meal toy amidst the other toys and I couldn't find it again.
Suddenly three men walked into the office. The lead man was a burly black fellow (about 30 years old) dressed in a flannel trench coat. I immediately realized that the office was indeed occupied and that these three men worked there. As I began explaining why I was there, I hoped they hadn't sensed that I had been thinking of filching something. They seemed a little dubious as they listened to me, but I thought they were going to allow me to hook up my machine.
One of the fellows (white, probably in his late 20s) had sat down at a desk and started working. I asked him what they did in the office and he told me that he wrote novels. Apparently his novels were then converted into some kind of animated format like a comic book. I was immediately interested and I told him that I was also writing a novel, my fourth novel, and that I had already written three.
I was referring to the books of dreams which I had written. I knew I was presently working on a fourth book which focused on my mother. I quickly began thinking about converting that book into comic book form. I knew the book was far too long to put into a single comic book. I thought perhaps the first book could be a description of a man who had the dreams, and the subsequent comic books in the series could describe the various dreams.
As I began describing my idea to the fellow, thinking he might be interested in illustrating the comic books if I would write them, he and I walked into the next room. Several people were sitting around the room. They seemed to be concentrated on their work. Apparently they had never really sold any of their books, and the whole project was still in doubt. I thought about my father and how he would judge the project by whether it could make money. I would have to agree with him. The idea sounded good, but if it didn't make money, it was a loser.
The other fellow and I both sat down. By now about fifteen people were somberly sitting around the perimeter of the room. Some seemed to be connected with me. I sat on the left end of a couch. Another fellow sat on my right, and to my surprise, my mother was sitting on the other side of him
My mother was thin and gray, probably in her 60s. Suddenly she began disdainfully blurting out statements about me. She almost sounded like someone with Tourette's syndrome, although I knew her real problem was Alzheimer's. I had never seen her sounding so bad. She began blurting several nasty remarks about me, about my writing and how I professed to write and how I never really succeeded. Her remarks were particularly biting, especially since I had just been talking to the fellow about writing. Worried what he would think, I finally snapped at her, "Shut up!"
She was quiet for a moment, then she started right back in. A couple times she even stood up while she was talking, then sat back down.
I was becoming quite emotional. I was beginning to see that this was some kind of discussion group where each person would take a turn talking about himself and his life. My mind felt boggled and bottled up. I half wanted to participate, but listening to my mother was taking a terrible toll on me. Tears were already forming in my eyes and I didn't want to start crying in front of everyone. I knew I was responsible for taking care of my mother. Listening to her demented statements was acutely painful. It looked as if my turn to talk was coming up next, but I didn't think I was going to be able to say anything.
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