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I dreamed we were on some island in Hawaii, a place I've never visited in the waking world. Skies overcast but not stormy in the beginning twilight. Someone was driving my son, daughter, and I around the island, giving us a tour. Daughter sat up front, and my son and I in the back; wide, spacious seats, a kind of dark turquoise leather. Couldn't tell who the driver was, but he pointed out various things of interest. The construction was Tudor homes, set close together, with a clearance that would not likely be permitted by modern zoning; it could have been anywhere, except for the ocean horizon on all sides. We passed by a large tent in an open field. The guide helpfully pointed out that it was here where those guys dance around throwing the flaming sticks or what have you. My son was intrigued. Are they pirates or something? He asked. No, the answer came.
The car, more of a small bus, was one of these amphibious vehicles. The driver piloted onto the beach and right into the water, and kept going, keeping us relatively close to shore. I pointed out various pods of dolphins to my son, who was watching on the seaward side rather than on the land side (the dolphins were close to shore), but every time he looked over the dolphins had flipped upside and waved their tails at us, like people waving farewell.
*
In the next part of the dream, we traveled up an elevator inside a glass tower, a skyscraper. The elevator shafts were in the middle, with a circular corridor that ran around them, a single hallway that opened then onto apartments furthest out facing the street and sky.
We were up 20 floors or more above the street. Friends of ours were in the corridor, having a sort of party or preparing to depart for one: S. from Jersey City, talking about his daughter and guitars; D. from Brooklyn, who was wearing an enormous blue bird suit, prancing about; R. from here in town, who has been dealing with some mental affliction for a long time, but who in the dream seemed in good enough spirits. We were looking for a key to one of the apartments—each of my friends had a separate apartment there, but none of them could help us get in, and I'm not sure why we even bothered.
*
Back down on the street, my son began to walk with purpose. It seemed to be autumn, wet leaves in the gutters. It was now early evening, but the sky was lit up as by moonlight. Roving packs of people. My daughter and I hurried after him. "He left his knife in this gun store," my daughter said as my son, not normally the swiftest of foot, pushed open to door of what I assumed to be a bodega. It was narrow inside, maybe eight feet wide, with two aisles and a raised platform in the middle that looked like filing cabinets. At the far end, a man with bronze skin and skeptical eyebrows watched the customers intently. On the filing cabinets, arranged in two rows and pointing outwards, was an enormous assortment of firearms. The place was packed, mostly kids. You had to side-shuffle down the aisles. My son made a beeline for the counter and the proprietor; apparently he had entrusted his knife to the man, for some reason, and the fellow handed over a small black folding knife to my son, who then filed out. I couldn't help but notice the ridiculousness of some of the weapons: one looked like a Colt revolved but with a red lampshade-like attachment on the barrel that made it look like one of those ray guns you'd see in '50s-era science fiction.
*
Back on the street, my kids had fled through the crowds, and I followed at a distance. They had entered a vast basilica, which in my mind was the "Vatican," although it looked nothing like the actual Vatican. Light streamed from the building, and I went inside. It was almost a labyrinth, with multicolored rooms of many pillars and icons of archangels opening on to further rooms, a dazzling rainbow of colors, with the faithful praying in some rooms and a general hush all around.
Then I heard my kids. Footfalls like a herd of elephants disrupting the quiet.
The two came hurtling around a corner. They were carrying what looked like a small footstool, and in hot pursuit were a passel of priests and cardinals. I somehow ducked out and retrieved what looked to be a small SUV, although it could have been the AcquaCar from earlier in the dream. I drove it in fits and jolts up the steps to the basilica's entrance, and pulled through its massive doors. My kids came flying up to the vehicle with the priestly mob at their heels. The kids jumped in and I, delicately maneuvering so as not to run over any of the laity, who stood around looking confused, drove back out and onto the streets.
I drove some streets away and parked. The kids were eager to show me the "footstool," which was four legs attached to what looked like a set of VHS tapes. The tapes were of what seemed to be an '80s-era British TV show about the life of Saint Augustine; the cover showed the saint casting holy water at a large, shaggy demon that resembled a not-entirely-credible sasquatch costume with gnarled horns.
Why did they take it? Because it looked cool, they said. We left the vehicle and kept on walking.
The car, more of a small bus, was one of these amphibious vehicles. The driver piloted onto the beach and right into the water, and kept going, keeping us relatively close to shore. I pointed out various pods of dolphins to my son, who was watching on the seaward side rather than on the land side (the dolphins were close to shore), but every time he looked over the dolphins had flipped upside and waved their tails at us, like people waving farewell.
*
In the next part of the dream, we traveled up an elevator inside a glass tower, a skyscraper. The elevator shafts were in the middle, with a circular corridor that ran around them, a single hallway that opened then onto apartments furthest out facing the street and sky.
We were up 20 floors or more above the street. Friends of ours were in the corridor, having a sort of party or preparing to depart for one: S. from Jersey City, talking about his daughter and guitars; D. from Brooklyn, who was wearing an enormous blue bird suit, prancing about; R. from here in town, who has been dealing with some mental affliction for a long time, but who in the dream seemed in good enough spirits. We were looking for a key to one of the apartments—each of my friends had a separate apartment there, but none of them could help us get in, and I'm not sure why we even bothered.
*
Back down on the street, my son began to walk with purpose. It seemed to be autumn, wet leaves in the gutters. It was now early evening, but the sky was lit up as by moonlight. Roving packs of people. My daughter and I hurried after him. "He left his knife in this gun store," my daughter said as my son, not normally the swiftest of foot, pushed open to door of what I assumed to be a bodega. It was narrow inside, maybe eight feet wide, with two aisles and a raised platform in the middle that looked like filing cabinets. At the far end, a man with bronze skin and skeptical eyebrows watched the customers intently. On the filing cabinets, arranged in two rows and pointing outwards, was an enormous assortment of firearms. The place was packed, mostly kids. You had to side-shuffle down the aisles. My son made a beeline for the counter and the proprietor; apparently he had entrusted his knife to the man, for some reason, and the fellow handed over a small black folding knife to my son, who then filed out. I couldn't help but notice the ridiculousness of some of the weapons: one looked like a Colt revolved but with a red lampshade-like attachment on the barrel that made it look like one of those ray guns you'd see in '50s-era science fiction.
*
Back on the street, my kids had fled through the crowds, and I followed at a distance. They had entered a vast basilica, which in my mind was the "Vatican," although it looked nothing like the actual Vatican. Light streamed from the building, and I went inside. It was almost a labyrinth, with multicolored rooms of many pillars and icons of archangels opening on to further rooms, a dazzling rainbow of colors, with the faithful praying in some rooms and a general hush all around.
Then I heard my kids. Footfalls like a herd of elephants disrupting the quiet.
The two came hurtling around a corner. They were carrying what looked like a small footstool, and in hot pursuit were a passel of priests and cardinals. I somehow ducked out and retrieved what looked to be a small SUV, although it could have been the AcquaCar from earlier in the dream. I drove it in fits and jolts up the steps to the basilica's entrance, and pulled through its massive doors. My kids came flying up to the vehicle with the priestly mob at their heels. The kids jumped in and I, delicately maneuvering so as not to run over any of the laity, who stood around looking confused, drove back out and onto the streets.
I drove some streets away and parked. The kids were eager to show me the "footstool," which was four legs attached to what looked like a set of VHS tapes. The tapes were of what seemed to be an '80s-era British TV show about the life of Saint Augustine; the cover showed the saint casting holy water at a large, shaggy demon that resembled a not-entirely-credible sasquatch costume with gnarled horns.
Why did they take it? Because it looked cool, they said. We left the vehicle and kept on walking.
