Bruised Cherries: Foreign Visitors in the Auditorium

[NOTE: Like anyone who writes, I edit my work, even my dreams. It may not seem like it, but I do cut bits and pieces to make the narrative more clear. I wont make things up, but I will remove small moments that may be confusing, like a quick location change, or when one person turns into another and then back again in an instance. If I didn't, I think most dreams would be very difficult to follow. I know it can already be taxing enough to sit through someone else's dreams. However, today I am putting away my editor's pen and writing this morning's dream as just as I remember it. ]

2/1/15

I'm in the auditorium of my old high school. Sister M. is there. She was the sometimes kindly but more often foaming at the mouth-scary nun who acted as the assistant director of our high school plays. Also in attendance is President Obama. Wait, is he our principle AND the president? And is this the auditorium AND the chamber of the House of Representatives? Oh man.

Everyone is discussing what to do with the extra thousand dollars in the budget. The president wants to build a small satellite stage in the middle of the auditorium. I help him move some bleachers around to get an idea of how big it would be.

Sister M, doesn't think we need it. I explain to the president that we used to built two smaller stages at the side of the main stage for every show, but they're really not needed. "What about the lights? Maybe we could update some of the lights," I suggest.

"Or the sound." Sister chimes in. "I know it's not that old, but the sound system isn't very good."

We're outside on a field now, but somehow it's still part of the auditorium. I see Vanessa Redgrave and her sister Lynn walking down a hill in period costumes, though I'm not sure what period, and enormously teased 1960s hairstyles. I feel like what I'm seeing is real, but also maybe a hologram.

The president is upset because there was supposed to be an unfurling of the Union Jack and a band playing God Save The Queen when they arrived. He runs to the back of the auditorium, and within moments a group of red coated soldiers takes the field/auditorium and plays the British anthem.

The president welcomes the sisters and asks where they grew up. Vanessa tells him it was in a small town north of London. Mr. Obama tells her he had once lived not too far from there. [i don't think any of that is actually true!]

Meanwhile, some sort of mock hearing has started on the stage. The president reads a list of charges against a student/congressman and begins to ask questions. The student gets up, yelling and screaming. He objects to the line of questioning. He threatens Obama with a hockey puck.

"If you throw that at me, you will be sorry."

The fair skinned student, an athletic but pudgy type, forcefully tosses the puck in Mr. Obama's direction and catches him square in the crotch. The red coated British soldiers pounce on the student. As they drag him away, the President, doubled over in pain, calls out, "You need to find a new school; I'm expelling you!"

The president looks up and wave to the crowd. "I"m okay. All the fruit is accounted for."

"But now you've got bruised cherries," I laugh.

The Redgrave sisters have been watching, but now they walk briskly up the side of a hill. I try to follow them, but I loose sight of them as we approach a baseball diamond. I see one of my aunts and her husband playing softball with a bunch of their kids. What are they doing? Don't they care about the Redgraves?

On the far side of the baseball diamond, I go down a small embankment and find Vanessa in modern clothes. It seems clear now that Lynn was just a hologram.

Vanessa is holding court and giving each person she encounters a few minutes of private conversation. My turn arrives and I tell her how much I enjoy her work and the work of her entire family. She thanks me, but I continue, specifically mentioning Lynn, and how inspiring I found her work, and her efforts to carry on and do her best even when there was no good work to be had.

Vanessa collapses on the ground clutching her chest. But suddenly she is no longer herself; she now resembles an elderly Jean Stapleton. She asks me to get a doctor. There happens to be one standing right behind us who kind of looks like Phil Collins. I tell Vanessa/Jean to hold my hand, which she does. The doctor checks her neck for a pulse but can't find one. It seems she has slipped away.

"Give her some digoxin," I demand.

"There's nothing we can do, she's gone."

But just as I'm thinking how glad I am that her last thoughts were happy ones about her sister, Vanessa/Jean's eyes pop wide open and she gasps, taking a loud, messy breath of life.