I had another dream. Several segments to it. These dreams just before waking. I used to want to capture them. Go over them. They were rare enough to keep. Now they are simply there. I think it was a train dining table where someone, was it Bill, l looked at me and said I needed a shower. I was dirty. And then I was in my room on the train getting ready to get off. Then I went back several cars ahead. But no one was there and then the train arrived and I was late. So I hustled back to my car to pick up my bag. But the car was gone. I knew that by the additional diner they had put on. And then I was looking for a conductor who appeared and told me my things would be on the platform. That did not seem right to me, I had more than one thing. I have fancied dreams to be the very stuff of immortality, the format in which each person who is no longer here can dial up any element of her past life and see it exactly as it was lived. But this dream is nothing like that. It is a straight Freudian anxiety dream about my coming trip by train. The trip is my test to see if I, approaching 80, can function on my own without my sweetheart. My doctor prep school chum Henry will be with me on the way to Oakland but I’ll go on from there. I am dirty! It could be Bill accusing me, telling me that in the intervening time between then and now, minds have opened to the inevitability of pharmaculture. He forgot his pills. But now I see for I too have evolved. I now fancy I could go up against a bona fide, knife-wielding, paranoid schizophrenic and snap him like a proverbial twig, so that his eyes would open and he would be in full touch with his consciousness and able to think himself anywhere. That’s what I peddle now. No mechanistic determinism for me.
I got up and took a shower. Unusual. It usually takes me longer to unravel from sleep. I may spend an entire morning in my bathrobe sitting here pounding away. The traffic seems more mellow than usual this morning, almost musical. I hear my sweetheart in the next room puttering. She has given me her flight plan to Florida. I will fetch her tickets online. As the world seeks to find a Malaysian 777 and I resolutely forswear air travel, I will fetch her a round trip with every confidence that she will go and return without a hitch. There I am next to Bill without one shred of knowledge about his past. Without knowing his damning diagnosis. Without perceiving his murderous potentiality Oh yes, that pool game when the force with which he hit the shot was thank you ma’am killer. Fact was back then I had no sense of things as I do now. I knew something was wrong the day I dropped him off that last time. I knew from his confronting me in the kitchen. And my response was as I have said. Curt and matter of fact. What Bill sees is what he gets. I can do no more than I can do. What if I had said as I might now, Bill let’s go talk. Oh, Bill did talk that night. Apparently deep into the night after his time at the Red Lion. Down the hill. He talked to George into the dawn about free will. And then he plunged the serrated knife into George. And then he disappeared.
Some Stones Don’t Roll (FicMemOne by Stephen C. Rose Book 1)http://buff.ly/1u9nbIh