November 23, 2012

Dreams of being on a bus hour led by Steve Lloyd. I was the driver of the immense road machine that had to be maneuvered with great skill. Once I stopped inches from a collision with a bridge. I marveled that I’d never been in a vehicle high as a bridge, and now I was driving one. Steven had to be left off somewhere in order to get to New York (the directions in the dream were very precise). I remembered that I too had to get to New York, for a haircut appointment that was, somehow, very important to me. There was a flash of a barber shop in a sort of cave, that long ago was part of a recurring dream. The bus was full of “special” kids who had to be given time to throw tantrums or make it successfully to the bathroom, and our rest stop seemed unlikely ever to end. No one would listen to me that we had to stop dithering and wasting time and get back to the airport so I could make it to my appointment. One side of the world was a wilderness of trees with pink and scarlet flowers. I said out loud in the dream, "We are not supposed to dream in color."