[This dream occurred at roughly 7am, after I had crawled back into bed following completion of all twelve steps of my morning qigong meditation.]
We were driving down a steep hill in a grey vehicle. I was in the passenger seat greatly concerned that we would crash into the debris that dotted the grassy hill - beams and bars of steel, piles of sandstone blocks, and stacks of cut wood. At the top of a rise we stopped, where I voiced my concerns to the driver, who merely stared forward, his face an unreadable mien. Below the rise stood the first tee of a disc-golf course next to a dead tree, but my companion turned and walked back up the way we’d come. I followed him back upward onto a dirt path that lead along a ridge covered in snow, from which we surveyed the surrounding countryside of cultivated fields, scattered woods, and distant farm houses.
Walking back down to the tee, we came upon a half dozen other persons kitted out for disc golf. Somewhere nearby but out of sight a person was screaming with horrible urgency, which scared me enough that I ran for shelter. The formerly dead tree had grown tremendously, great reaching tendrils of a hardened, textured, grey plastic that dug back into the ground, forming a wall. Finding my exit blocked, I turned to find the others standing close by, a massive newcomer in their midst. (He reminded me of a figure from my childhood, a giant scotsman dressed in battle fatigues.) The newcomer apologized for the screaming in a way that took my fear away, at which point the dream changed radically.
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
We left early Sunday morning, just after dawn. The drive to the station was uneventful, and we arrived with a half hour to spare before our train departed. Each of us had a few discs with him, enough to play at least 18 holes. I ate first, and so they kicked in for me first, but one of the other guys ate more and therefore felt a heavier initial surge. Thankfully, we weren’t in the quiet car, because our giggles came on strong enough to make heads turn. By the time the train reached the City of Brotherly Love (and Sisterly Affection), our pupils were dinner plates greedily sucking up stray photons. We climbed up into the 30th Street station and paused briefly to marvel in wonder at its vaulted ceiling and vast marbled-clad spaces. Mere feet from the doors to the outside, the other two decided they needed to find a restroom, whereupon they went to relieve themselves. I waited for them in the hallway near the bathroom and pretended to peruse a restaurant menu while the world around me quietly exploded.
Then we were out in the wind and in the sun with our phones out trying to open applications and figure out how to get visual maps and audio guides going that would lead us to our first destination - the Sedgley Woods disc golf course. We walked, of course, following the river until we hit a police roadblock at a major intersection. At that point we turned north and left the course of the river, climbing a hill and following a shady tree-shaded trail that lead along crumbling old walls. At the top of the hill, in the middle of a field, sat a lone camping tent, which we decided not to enter. Then we almost got killed crossing a major road intersection that didn’t have a pedestrian crosswalk, climbed another hill, made a left, and arrived at our destination. We hadn’t barely figured out how to approach the first tee yet when we met a pair of local guides, two gentlemen who were smoking cabbage and knew the lay of the land. After playing 27 short holes together on the wooden urban course, we took their advice and went for fried chicken at the gas station across the road, which we ate with them, breaking bread together on a rotting park bench under a struggling tree.
With not a minute to spare we arrived at our second destination, a hip brewery in Fishtown. After touring it, I went out to photograph graffiti while my friends stayed inside and kept drinking. Once I was finished we exited into the hot afternoon sun and started for a gin distillery nearby. Along the way we ate more, of course, finishing the bag. At the gin mill we were sipping death in the afternoon when the second round kicked in, prompting us to head for the next brewery. And then the next. The day got sweaty, what with one of us hauling around two filled growlers and another of us trying to enter each abandoned building we passed along the way. We were having a bit of trouble fitting into society but finally made it back to the station with fewer than five minutes to spare, only to find that our train was delayed indefinitely. It left 45 minutes late, long enough for us to fully appreciate each contour of a gorgeous marble panel named The Spirit of Transportation (1895), by Karl Bitter, and for me to get a girl’s contact information.
She’s seeing someone else now, by the way.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
I was in a house that was in the process of being renovated. With me were people I knew well. We talked for a long time, the people and I, whilst sitting cross-legged in a circle in one of the nearly finished rooms. The others and I were wearing tan colored ankle-length robes of some kind. The room had many windows, it was brightly lit, and its walls were painted white.
After our talk was finished we stood up for to have a stretch, whereupon I for some reason entered a smaller neighboring room, to change clothes or just have a look around. The room was empty but for a floor lamp burning a standard incandescent bulb that cast a yellow light. The room had wooden parquet flooring, wooden panels that covered the walls to hip-height, and dark green paint, above. Someone entered the room behind me and I had the feeling I wasn’t supposed to be in there.
When I turned around to leave I saw that a square section of the roof above the green-walled room had been crudely sawed away, leaving a yawning gap that someone had tried to cover with a blue tarpaulin of some sort. Knowing I could mend it better, I went to a closet where supplies for fixing such a hole were kept, gathering up a ladder, hammer and nails, a square piece of plywood, some fiberglass insulation board, as well as roofing shingles and metal flashing. As I was removing the blue tarpaulin I discovered it was instead a heavy-duty Manduka yoga mat I had once owned. The mat was thinner than I remembered and smelled of ozone and heat, however, having sat under the hot sun for so long. I started shoving insulation into the gap and installing bridge-beams to carry the plywood and replacement asphalt shingles, which I had to wedge up under the existing clay tiles.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
I was again in a house, but this one had lots of windows as well as blond beams of wood exposed to a bright blue sky above. Its roof was gone in places although I was confident in the structure’s overall integrity. I’d gotten to the house after climbing a steep hill, meaning that I had been climbing a steep hill and then found myself inside the house. Unlike in previous dreams, the house was not too scary, dark, or replete with series of ever-smaller doors I felt compelled to crawl through until I was squeezed in so tightly I could not move. I experienced the sensation that the house was moving or rolling as if floating on high seas. For some reason, I climbed up onto the roof, discovering it was a hybrid between hill and house. A Buddhist temple and other shrines stood on the roof’s peak, and as I was walking along it I wondered where the hill had gotten to. To my left were other buildings, a quaint town constructed in a medieval European style. To my right was the hill, an impossibly steep mountain shrouded in mist. I was running past the temple toward the shrines at the roof’s far end when I awoke back into full consciousness.
© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥
blog updated thrice weekly
Among other things I am barber, bicyclist, surfer, vagabond, writer, and yogi.