It’s not about me

I was in my car, stuck in a long line of traffic in a city that was vaguely London. A young man pedaled along on a bicycle, dinging all the cars he passed with something in his hand. I parked my car, left and quickly returned, and my car was gone. The same sneering car-dinger had stolen it! I was enraged. I chased him surreptitiously through an old shopping arcade that was littered with lumber, and finally caught him. I smashed him like a bug, as he shrank quickly in size, under a 2×4 beam, and I stomped on it until he was obliterated. Yet some part of him had managed to escape. The story sort of split there. The thing I destroyed was smaller and more evil and powerful, and somehow female in nature. Still there was a sense that the destruction wasn’t complete. I had in my hand a piece of stiff yellow fuzz that represented her remains, which I needed to destroy in a blast furnace or something similarly final to ensure that she wouldn’t be resurrected. Through the rest of the dream, this piece of fuzz was present and ominous, like the The Ring in The Lord of the Rings.

I and a friend were touring a large European city, and I arrived at the top of an escalator, where the floor was so slippery smooth that I skated over to a small grocery store nearby, where I needed to buy food. The sene shifted and I was arriving into a borderless white room. Seated around in a loose circle were people that I was intended to meet, or there was preparation for an impending gathering. To the left, on a short couch was my father (as an old man), but as I skated over near him, he was unresponsive. So I skated to a tent-like booth to my right to visit an old professor of mine. He didn’t really recognize me, but we talked a little. And then there was cleanup to do, food to put away, and I volunteered to help the women in charge of it.

I was quickly flying past several blocks downtown, with no definite means of transport.  Some trade-show-like booths had been set up, each one advertising something about me, it seemed. One had a big tacky oval sign that said something like Super Pro, and I mused that whoever put that one together lacked a good marketing sense.

In a crowded bazaar, among the stalls was a small stage where a young woman sat on a chair. I gathered that she was somehow my representative — that she represented me. On her forehead were perched round yellow plastic sunglasses with rose-colored lenses, sort of in disarray. I walked up and adjusted them down to her eyes. Because she was my representative, I didn’t need an introduction. She had a robust build, and wore a close-fitting dress made of reddish glass beads. I placed myself between her knees — she was at my face level, seated there on the stage — and lightly moved in for a very close look at her, noticing her lightly tanned, freckled skin and green eyes. The scene ended.

I was still traveling, looking for a place to burn the fuzzy remnant of evil that I was responsible for destroying. In the last scene, there was a kind of unfolding, rather than the destruction of this fuzzy thing. There was a sense that I hadn’t completed my job, and this story would continue.