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I dreamed my wife, son, and I were in the basement of a hotel in Chicago. (My daughter, as is her want, was off doing her own thing, I assume.)
It was all corrugated metal, very modern, more behind the scenes at a theater production than anything else, with a catwalk running around the sides of a cube like space, with us looking down upon crowds below. There were tangles of thick wire, like someone running a sound board that went every which way. The place was crawling with folks wearing all black, like some kind of huge party for goth nerds. The place buzzed. None of my family fit in very well.
My wife and I took to standing just inside the entrance and surveying the scene as my son, clad in red plaid, wandered some. A man with some kind of cart full of random objects trundled up to us with his posse. He began to carry on at length about my wife's many virtues, not in a smarmy way, but a kind of rhapsody of superlatives.
After a break in his speech there was silence among us, despite the milling noise of the crowd all about.
"Did you ever consider giving up all the best things about yourself," I said to him and them all, "in order to get something better?" I nodded, indicating my wife.
"Almost a poet, this one is!" said the man with a wry smile, and trundled off.
My wife and I noted then that we had, amid all the conversation, lost track of our son. We began tearing through the crowd in search of a glimpse of red in the sea of black.
It was all corrugated metal, very modern, more behind the scenes at a theater production than anything else, with a catwalk running around the sides of a cube like space, with us looking down upon crowds below. There were tangles of thick wire, like someone running a sound board that went every which way. The place was crawling with folks wearing all black, like some kind of huge party for goth nerds. The place buzzed. None of my family fit in very well.
My wife and I took to standing just inside the entrance and surveying the scene as my son, clad in red plaid, wandered some. A man with some kind of cart full of random objects trundled up to us with his posse. He began to carry on at length about my wife's many virtues, not in a smarmy way, but a kind of rhapsody of superlatives.
After a break in his speech there was silence among us, despite the milling noise of the crowd all about.
"Did you ever consider giving up all the best things about yourself," I said to him and them all, "in order to get something better?" I nodded, indicating my wife.
"Almost a poet, this one is!" said the man with a wry smile, and trundled off.
My wife and I noted then that we had, amid all the conversation, lost track of our son. We began tearing through the crowd in search of a glimpse of red in the sea of black.
