There seem to be degrees of dreams from small to big. The big dreams tend to be more memorable because they are dramatic. I think some people recall only the big dreams. Recalling small dreams is more of a skill. One way to learn is to practice the techniques of dream recall on the big dreams and, eventually, recall becomes better for small dreams. In my case, if I don’t practice, my skill diminishes. I have to keep it honed. That’s why I report the small dreams as well and as consistently as I can muster my interest in them. The longer the interval between big dreams, the harder it is to continue to record small dreams. My enthusiasm wavers. Last night, though, there was a big dream after a long period of small dreams. Not the big, ecstatic dream type that sends my life catapulting into different directions, but one large enough to grab my attention and excite me again.
The Dream: I’m not sure of the setting. There are counters, long tables, and a corridor leading to a foyer with glass doors. The place has a subdued atmosphere and carpeting like an office or bank. President Obama enters this place. It’s an honor and a surprise. I and a man (someone I know from ages ago named Tim. I can’t recall his last name.) hurry to make preparations for President Obama’s meeting with Leonid Brezhnev (Older readers will remember him as the longtime Russian leader of the 60s and 70s. He’s dead many years now, of course.).
As part of what I have to do, I spread a long sheet of plastic over a map on a table. I staple it down and spread another sheet and staple that down, too. Brezhnev doesn’t have any help preparing because he didn’t have enough money to pay for an aide. Tim and I take care of everything. President Obama leaves the building through the glass doors. I think he has gone to purchase donuts. In any case, only Tim and I are there when two men in suits enter. One is a large man, one is younger and slender. He vaguely reminds me of Krycek (X-files, before he lost an arm. Some readers might recall that Krycek was the son of Russian immigrants during the Cold War.)
I’m afraid the men represent a threat to the president, so I look at Tim, hoping he will understand that he needs to go find the president to warn him. I’m afraid the two men will see what I’m saying, but they don’t, and Tim is allowed to leave the building.
Tim must have succeeded in delivering a warning because police enter the building. The larger man in a suit is arrested. Apparently, the police and the president believe he was the major threat. The younger, slender man is allowed to go free. I try to persuade a policeman that the young man has to be arrested. I tag along beside the head of the police, dragging on his arm, making arguments about how the young man will change my life, alter my relationships and, in general, create chaos for me and maybe others if left free. The policeman finally relents and prepares to arrest the young man in the suit, but the man has fled.
The policeman and I search for him. We are always running just a few steps behind, but unable to see him. We chase him across a gravel parking lot and reach his car, probably just in time to scare him off. The car trunk is open wide, the keys to the car still in the lock. The man’s soft baggage is still there, although the main compartment of the bag is empty. I take the baggage with its few, remaining items. I pull the keys from the lock on the trunk and also take possession of the car.
I’m resigned now to having lost the young man and am walking back to my place of employment, an office. On the way, I pass an opening to a watery place underground. The young man in the suit is in the water at the bottom. He calls up to me, asking me why I would want him pursued and arrested. He insists I was his best student of the Russian language at one time. I’m fairly indignant about what I believe is either a lie or something I don’t want to believe. I shout at him that I never spoke Russian and was never in Russia. He insists I was in Russia, not in Africa as I believe I was.
I leave the man behind me. In the office where I work, I look more closely at the bag and the empty compartment, which is stiff and rectangular, and surmise that it held a computer and that the man must have gotten away with it but not had time to do anything else. I now consider the car, which is still registered to the man in the suit. I want to own it officially, but cannot think how to transfer ownership of a vehicle that is essentially stolen property. It’s a problem.
Next is an intervening dream sequence in which I am dead, but have come back to life temporarily to organize the arrangements of my death. Most specifically, I am trying to have my picture framed properly. The picture is printed on a puzzle, and the puzzle pieces keep coming apart. I try to get someone to glue them down properly and add a frame. While I struggle with these puzzle pieces, I notice that another dead woman has had her name engraved on a headstone so she doesn’t have this dilemma.
The death interval ends, and I am in a grocery store reading the back of a plastic package containg hemp seeds advertised as snack food. A young woman named Van (someone I knew a long while ago) approaches me in the grocery aisle. She’s with me when I see the young man in the suit again. Also there is Rusty (yet another person I knew a long time ago. In the few dreams in which he has appeared, he’s usually ultra-cool, yet achingly vulnerable, as he vaguely is now.) When the young man in the suit appears, he’s wearing a casual jacket now. Rusty is also wearing a jacket, but his is leather. He’s trying to sell it, and the young man wants to buy it. They make the deal and the young man puts on the leather jacket.
I notice there’s a problem. The leather jacket has big numbers, the sale price of 65, written on it in several places. They might be written directly on the leather or on tape applied to the leather. I try to peel the numbers off, but they won’t release.
The young man speaks to me again, repeating what he said before, that I was his best Russian student. Argumentative, I disagree with him again. We look at each other intensely. Six foot or better, he’s several inches taller than me, and his eyes are bright, maybe blue, probably gray. Dramatically, he accuses me of wanting to run off to Africa again, probably Morocco. He says that all I want to do is climb that windy crag and wait for my lover as I did before. His words invoke an exhilarating vision of the craggy rocks, a stiff breeze, and myself in heightened anticipation. I know it’s true, that this is exactly what I want to do. I have a sense that he feels betrayed and should be the lover for which I am waiting, yet the scenario takes place in Africa while the young man insists this should all be Russian. I don’t understand.