Lots of fire and kids in my dreams last night. But what does it all mean?
I dreamed Stacy and I were studying in Toronto, having to go downtown everyday for classes. The campus looked more like U of T than Rye High. Because we lived way the hell out in almost Mississauga we had a two-seater plane. Everyday we’d fly to classes in no time. No need to land at the Island Airport and commute, there was a landing strip right on campus.
I was studying Thoreau with my Rye High American Literature Professor in a quiet secluded Victorian-like study/library. Stacy was doing some sort of chef-type course in a huge open noisy cafeteria type restaurant. I could hear the clock ticking and my heart beating in my study space. She needed to scream to be heard in hers. We loved it!
My class ended first so I went to her shimmering stainless steel cafeteria to have coffee and relax before the brief flight home. I was trying to read but the place was so noisy I couldn’t focus so I was just sort of vegging, people watching, when a news story flashed onto a television screen suspended from the ceiling above me. It showed a two-seater plane flying through a storm, lightning zinging all around, the plane being tossed about in strong winds. You could almost see the strained faces of the pilot and passenger through the rain washed windshield, that’s how close the cameras were, more like a special effects film than a news report. I shuddered but couldn’t take my eyes off the plane.
I gasped when a bolt of lightning hit the passenger-side wing sending a shower of sparks into the smoky clouds. The plane bounced but the pilot managed to hang on. I prayed for the miraculous ending, the one where the pilot somehow guides the plane to safety despite everything. I hoped for the amazing soundclip, the pilot’s voice slicing through telephone static, “A voice in my head said it was going to be alright and I calmed right down. I knew we’d be okay. I knew I’d get us down . . .” I mouthed the words and prayed as another lightning bolt struck the pilot’s side wing scattering pieces like confetti. Flames shooting out of the cockpit but I couldn’t look away as the situation turned hopeless. Now there would be grieving family soundclips, praise from co-workers, “Stan was the best pilot I knew, if he couldn’t land, nobody could . . .” Tears burned my eyes as the plane suddenly exploded into a ball of white light. Oh my God! But wait. I noticed something else. A speck really. A dark form falling away from the flames.
Cut to a young reporter standing in pouring rain outside a hospital Emergency Room. Pilot and passenger ejected seconds before the explosion. Stable but critical condition. My tense body sags with relief as Stacy sidles into the chair next to me, her day finished, ready to fly home. I’m not paying attention to her chit-chat as I look out the window at the threatening sky and wonder how soon before the storm strikes here, if we have parachutes onboard. Then her voice breaks in, “Are you listening to me? I’m pregnant. Don’t tell anyone yet, okay?”
The scene shifts. I’m in a loft-like apartment, very bright and modern. A wall of windows opening onto a gorgeous sunshiny day, gleaming white walls, plush cream coloured sofa and chairs. Very not me, yet this appears to be where I live. My hair is cropped short and I’m wearing a grey fedora. It’s a great hat. I’m making tea for my mother and Grammie Underhill who have stopped in unexpectedly to visit. I’m very conscious of the fact that I have a secret (Stacy’s pregnancy) that I’m not allowed to tell. I’m very uncomfortable and worried that I might slip up. The scene keeps panning from Mom and Grammie sitting on the couch to me in the kitchen, back and forth like a tennis match, and everytime I’m shown I’m wearing a different hat. A black tophat, white Panama, red Stetson, navy Homburg and more. The fedora is my favourite.
The scene shifts again. Stacy and I are in a huge garage, perhaps an airplane hangar. The front is completely open to the outside. There are a lot of people milling about, it seems like an open house or trade show or something is happening here. I walk up to her as she’s speaking to a burly man I don’t know. She’s trying to get clearance to fly us home, casually mentions her good news that she’s pregnant. I can’t believe it! After I nearly bit my tongue off to not say anything to Mom and Grammie, and here she is blurting it out to anyone who’ll listen. I don’t want to get into it here, so I turn and walk away. Go stand in the huge open doorway. Grey clouds boiling in the sky. Sherry and Anna come up to me. Sherry is a younger version of herself, early 20’s, with that long big hair, super skinny in painted on jeans. Anna is herself, nearly three, toddling around, talking non-stop, but it almost seems like she’s my child, like Sherry’s only been watching her for me. Sherry is too young and wild to be the responsible mother, while I seem weighted by responsibility and worry.
We’re standing half in/ half out of this huge hangar-like warehouse-type building, chatting about nothing important. I still don’t know whether I can tell her that Stacy’s pregnant or if that will get me in trouble, so I don’t mention it. Cars drive past us, entering the building and circling like the people on foot. One car comes through very fast. It’s like the Starsky and Hutch car, orange with a white stripe. I know the guy driving. It’s Alden. I used to date his brother. I think to myself that I can get him to drive us home and then we won’t have to fly in lightning. But when he races past us I get a good look at him and he looks drunk and crazy, wild-eyed . . . and there’s fire in the backseat, smoke billowing out behind him. His car is on fire and he doesn’t seem to know. I scoop Anna up and bury her face in my neck. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I want to protect her. People scatter to get out of his way and he zooms to the end of the warehouse, screeches into a doughnut and races back toward us. About 20 feet from us the car explodes and he crashes into the wall. I’m horrified, screaming, “Somebody call 911! Somebody call 911!” over and over. I can’t stop screaming it. It’s all I can say and nobody else seems to have noticed anything. I’m rooted to the spot, clutching Anna, helpless, when he stumbles out of the wreckage covered in flames. I scream for 911 even more frantically. I can’t watch him be burned alive. I turn away. Then I can’t NOT watch so I look back and he’s on the ground, rolling to put himself out.
He manages to put the flames out and gets to his feet just as I see an ambulance pull up and paramedics rushing a gurney toward us. He’s super skinny, eyes hollowed out, cheekbones jutting. He’s completely bald, scalp blistered from the fire. His jeans and shirt are tattered like a shipwreck victim and blackened from the flames. His left arm is in a sling. He stumbles toward me and I see it’s not Alden after all. It’s Marty. “Hello Luv,” he says.
And then I wake up. Anyone up for an interpretation of this beast?
Listening To: the boy in the house, perhaps doing kitchen chores (I should steal a page from his book.)
Hair: depressed it isn’t short and cute with a closet full of fantastic hats