the ID or the superego?
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I can remember my dream from last night in great detail. It involves my late grandfather who passed away a little more than a year ago. To the best of my knowledge he was never incarcerated as in the dream. If anyone would like to suggest interpretations on this one, be my guest.
He had just gotten out of prison. He was in there for quite some time as it seems. We walked slowly around a courtyard that very closely resembled an area of Harvard or MIT in the fall. He walked heavily, his feet not rising more than an inch or so off the ground, it was more of a shuffle than anything. He kept coffee beans in his pants pocket, he would chew on them all day long. We walked through the grounds kicking fallen leaves away from our feet, not really talking, not really having to. We went down to the waterfront. There was no beach, only cliffs as steep and as jagged as anywhere could possibly be. He wanted some fish. We cast our lines out and watched as shadows of fish danced around the lure, teasing us as we lied to them. We finally caught two, one apiece. As we reeled in our meals, the sea demanded payment, so we took $20 from our pockets and paid the ocean for its bounty. The fish were long and gray, natures perfect camouflage. We placed the fish in between slices of white bread and feasted. Venturing back through the courtyard we saw a man selling fish. A single solitary fish, with a spear stuck through its side. The man wore a loincloth and his skin was like leather from baking in the sun. He wasn’t aboriginal, but it was close. I examined the tip of the spear. The wood had been sharpened to a dull point with a knife, the marks still evident in the soft wood. The fish stuck straight out, as stiff as a board, and missing its head. Whatever blood had been on the spear had been carefully washed away. The fisherman was asking $10 for the fish. We paid him and feasted more.
He was tired and lonely. The years in prison hadn’t been so kind to him. We were at my house now, standing at the foot of the driveway. He had to go home but it was just too far to walk. He hopped on a gurney and I started to wheel him down the street. He looked frightened. We came to an intersection with stop signs going every which way. I needed to turn right but as I did grampy slid off the bed to the left almost willingly. He hit the ground with a thud and was nervous and wimpering. His eyes were wide open and glassy, taking it all in but seeing a thing. I asked him why he fell.
“you didn’t stop. There is a stop sign there.”
I helped him back onto the gurney and pushed him a little further up into a driveway on the left. There was a platform on the driveway, a patio raised maybe 6 feet off the ground. I brought him up there where he hopped off, and proceeded to crumple onto the ground, spreading himself out as much as possible. he had the same look on his face. Concerned I kneeled down and asked him what was wrong. He said he might be sick. I turned so as not to get any puke on me, but nothing came. I turned and looked at him, he had become completely vulnerable, on the verge of tears. I asked him what was wrong still.
“I’m afraid of heights.”
Buuuzzzzzzzz. 7am. wake up.
He had just gotten out of prison. He was in there for quite some time as it seems. We walked slowly around a courtyard that very closely resembled an area of Harvard or MIT in the fall. He walked heavily, his feet not rising more than an inch or so off the ground, it was more of a shuffle than anything. He kept coffee beans in his pants pocket, he would chew on them all day long. We walked through the grounds kicking fallen leaves away from our feet, not really talking, not really having to. We went down to the waterfront. There was no beach, only cliffs as steep and as jagged as anywhere could possibly be. He wanted some fish. We cast our lines out and watched as shadows of fish danced around the lure, teasing us as we lied to them. We finally caught two, one apiece. As we reeled in our meals, the sea demanded payment, so we took $20 from our pockets and paid the ocean for its bounty. The fish were long and gray, natures perfect camouflage. We placed the fish in between slices of white bread and feasted. Venturing back through the courtyard we saw a man selling fish. A single solitary fish, with a spear stuck through its side. The man wore a loincloth and his skin was like leather from baking in the sun. He wasn’t aboriginal, but it was close. I examined the tip of the spear. The wood had been sharpened to a dull point with a knife, the marks still evident in the soft wood. The fish stuck straight out, as stiff as a board, and missing its head. Whatever blood had been on the spear had been carefully washed away. The fisherman was asking $10 for the fish. We paid him and feasted more.
He was tired and lonely. The years in prison hadn’t been so kind to him. We were at my house now, standing at the foot of the driveway. He had to go home but it was just too far to walk. He hopped on a gurney and I started to wheel him down the street. He looked frightened. We came to an intersection with stop signs going every which way. I needed to turn right but as I did grampy slid off the bed to the left almost willingly. He hit the ground with a thud and was nervous and wimpering. His eyes were wide open and glassy, taking it all in but seeing a thing. I asked him why he fell.
“you didn’t stop. There is a stop sign there.”
I helped him back onto the gurney and pushed him a little further up into a driveway on the left. There was a platform on the driveway, a patio raised maybe 6 feet off the ground. I brought him up there where he hopped off, and proceeded to crumple onto the ground, spreading himself out as much as possible. he had the same look on his face. Concerned I kneeled down and asked him what was wrong. He said he might be sick. I turned so as not to get any puke on me, but nothing came. I turned and looked at him, he had become completely vulnerable, on the verge of tears. I asked him what was wrong still.
“I’m afraid of heights.”
Buuuzzzzzzzz. 7am. wake up.
posted by Chris Porter at 5:47 PM
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