I've actually been thinking about dreams the past couple of days, since I attended a production of The Nutcracker with my sister and her husband. Most of the plot, in as much as there is a plot, is based on the sleepy hallucinations of a little girl who's had way too much sugar. It got me thinking of what dreams actually mean, all the things they inspire, and why they can be so unsettling. I couldn't help but wonder, as Carrie Bradshaw would say, what would a ballet of one of my dreams look like?
Take this one for example...
12/28/15
Something has happened to me. I'm not quite sure what, but it seems catastrophic. I think I may have had some sort of accident, or breakdown or medical emergency. I'm living in a half-way house in Harlem. I've been assigned a pair of social workers: Carol Burnett and Vicki Lawrence.
We talk about how they're going to help me get back up on my feet, but that I can only stay in this place for about two months. Carol tells me she has to leave for a few days for a job out of town, but not to worry because she'll be back in town on Friday to perform in Wicked. I tell her not to worry about coming to see me, that I don't want her to have to run around so much when she has a show to do.
My late father shows up to take me to buy a typewriter. But first he wants to stop for doughnuts. Sadly, the doughnut store doesn't open for another hour, so we head to a pawn shop.
Though I was hoping for something newer, my dad picks out a lime green electric typewriter. He goes back out to the car while I look for replacement ribbons. It turns out there are no ribbons, as the saleslady shows me how to pour the ink out of a bottle and right into the typewriter. I scurry out of the store and into the backseat of my dad's station wagon, and we take off, presumably in search of doughnuts.
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