[I want remind the reader that sometimes my dreams are daydreams. I relate them all in the same way. Dreams are described by italics and all other in regular text.]
I am with my third (and Swedish) wife in Gothenburg, Sweden, walking along a pedestrian boulevard lined with small shops. Much like the stalls in the ferry building at the end of Market street. I look at her walking so proudly, sexy in the understanding that others admire her appearance as do I. I speak with her in my very broken Swedish about the end of our marriage and the emotional wreckage it left with a flotsam of waste in its wake. I am keenly aware that my Swedish has deteriorated and she corrects me and fills in missing words as I speak with her. I am embarrassed by the quality of my Swedish and in a strange waking moment I am reminded that my marriage with her ended only seven years ago. No wonder my Swedish has almost left me.
We are now with her parents at their summer home. They are with us in the background. I know that they are listening to my conversation with her. They are faintly amused by my terrible Swedish and my wife's ongoing corrections to it. I become increasingly frustrated by my inability to communicate. Yet I stubbornly refuse to speak English although I know that everyone is fluent it. It is comical really. But I only spoke English when my wife and I were in private. I will not break that habit now. This goes on a while until the dream just trails away and morphs into something completely different.
I am standing at the end of the driveway to my parent's house. My mother and father are there. My father is holding a manuscript for his novel in an open 8-1/2 by 12 box. The box is open and I see the top page of the manuscript on top. I know from having read it (in the future) that it is a disgusting pornographic novel. He is holding it in his outstretched arms towards me. Standing next to him is my mother with an anxious look on her face. He looks surly.
Earlier in the day I had boasted that I could get my father's novel published using my contacts in San Francisco. It was an outright lie--I had no such contacts where I lived. But my mom rushed up to my father's study to cautiously interrupt him with this news. There are a few brief moments of tense conversation between the two of them. My father comes downstairs with the manuscript. I tell him what I can do but he does not reply.
Back to the driveway. His resentful demeanor is silent. I take the manuscript from him and without a word returns to the house and (presumably) his study. I close the box carefully by removing the lid in which the box has been placed on top. I cover the box with it.
I am aware that he hates having to depend on me for something. After the repeated beatings by him stopped he has always been resentful and to some small extent afraid of me. I remember that he is in essence a bully, a coward and mean. I take the manuscript with no intent of ever trying to get it published.
Later in San Francisco I come to ignore this manuscript. Despited repeated desperate calls from my mother I always tell her that I am trying (a lie) but nothing is turning up. Eventually the matter is dropped and she no longer speaks of it anymore to me. At no time does my father call me about it.
I am in a roadside market with several people. I'm not sure who they are. I need to get a roll of film for my camera. I read the type of film awkwardly from the canister in which the used portion is kept to a man behind a counter. It looks like an automobile parts store. He says in a low mutter that he thinks it's an expensive refill. He asks me if I am sure I need a refill. I assure him that I do.
The canister has now morphed in to a replacement cartridge for my inkjet printer. I hope the replacement for it will work and whether I will be able to get it into the printer. A picture of the printer flashes through my mind and I become panicky that I won't be able to replace the cartridge.
The man returns and tells me that he has a replacement. I am relieved. He says to me offhandedly that I must have a very expensive camera. An image of my current (now ex, actually) wife's camera flashes through my mind. I ask the man if the film will work in a digital camera. He assures me that it will. I am uncertain what happens next but I think I pay him for the canister and leave to join the others. I am briefly in the backseat of a car jammed between two other people. I think my father is driving and my mother is sitting next to him but I am not sure.
I am in my grade school. I am deeply resentful about something. A man comes up to me and commands me to perform a task of some sort. I am surly and tell him, "No, I won't." He is commanding in his posture and I realize this is the ex-marine who finally got my brother under control. I remember that my brother had spent all of his time in the library instead of his class. There he read all day long. An ex-Marine commanded him to go to class and he obeyed. The man was not someone to trifle with. My brother had threatened to stab his teacher and kill her if she attempted to make him attend class. That's how he ended up in the library.
Now the marine is commanding me. I resentfully show him some sort of apparatus I constructed but still does not work. He tells me to go to swim class. I am now at the pool but have forgotten to bring my swim shorts. The other students are girls and stand giggling among themselves at the other end of the pool. They are not laughing at me, however.
I use my apparatus on a hot-air balloon. It now works and the marine commends me. I drift away.
I am with my third (and Swedish) wife in Gothenburg, Sweden, walking along a pedestrian boulevard lined with small shops. Much like the stalls in the ferry building at the end of Market street. I look at her walking so proudly, sexy in the understanding that others admire her appearance as do I. I speak with her in my very broken Swedish about the end of our marriage and the emotional wreckage it left with a flotsam of waste in its wake. I am keenly aware that my Swedish has deteriorated and she corrects me and fills in missing words as I speak with her. I am embarrassed by the quality of my Swedish and in a strange waking moment I am reminded that my marriage with her ended only seven years ago. No wonder my Swedish has almost left me.
We are now with her parents at their summer home. They are with us in the background. I know that they are listening to my conversation with her. They are faintly amused by my terrible Swedish and my wife's ongoing corrections to it. I become increasingly frustrated by my inability to communicate. Yet I stubbornly refuse to speak English although I know that everyone is fluent it. It is comical really. But I only spoke English when my wife and I were in private. I will not break that habit now. This goes on a while until the dream just trails away and morphs into something completely different.
I am standing at the end of the driveway to my parent's house. My mother and father are there. My father is holding a manuscript for his novel in an open 8-1/2 by 12 box. The box is open and I see the top page of the manuscript on top. I know from having read it (in the future) that it is a disgusting pornographic novel. He is holding it in his outstretched arms towards me. Standing next to him is my mother with an anxious look on her face. He looks surly.
Earlier in the day I had boasted that I could get my father's novel published using my contacts in San Francisco. It was an outright lie--I had no such contacts where I lived. But my mom rushed up to my father's study to cautiously interrupt him with this news. There are a few brief moments of tense conversation between the two of them. My father comes downstairs with the manuscript. I tell him what I can do but he does not reply.
Back to the driveway. His resentful demeanor is silent. I take the manuscript from him and without a word returns to the house and (presumably) his study. I close the box carefully by removing the lid in which the box has been placed on top. I cover the box with it.
I am aware that he hates having to depend on me for something. After the repeated beatings by him stopped he has always been resentful and to some small extent afraid of me. I remember that he is in essence a bully, a coward and mean. I take the manuscript with no intent of ever trying to get it published.
Later in San Francisco I come to ignore this manuscript. Despited repeated desperate calls from my mother I always tell her that I am trying (a lie) but nothing is turning up. Eventually the matter is dropped and she no longer speaks of it anymore to me. At no time does my father call me about it.
I am in a roadside market with several people. I'm not sure who they are. I need to get a roll of film for my camera. I read the type of film awkwardly from the canister in which the used portion is kept to a man behind a counter. It looks like an automobile parts store. He says in a low mutter that he thinks it's an expensive refill. He asks me if I am sure I need a refill. I assure him that I do.
The canister has now morphed in to a replacement cartridge for my inkjet printer. I hope the replacement for it will work and whether I will be able to get it into the printer. A picture of the printer flashes through my mind and I become panicky that I won't be able to replace the cartridge.
The man returns and tells me that he has a replacement. I am relieved. He says to me offhandedly that I must have a very expensive camera. An image of my current (now ex, actually) wife's camera flashes through my mind. I ask the man if the film will work in a digital camera. He assures me that it will. I am uncertain what happens next but I think I pay him for the canister and leave to join the others. I am briefly in the backseat of a car jammed between two other people. I think my father is driving and my mother is sitting next to him but I am not sure.
I am in my grade school. I am deeply resentful about something. A man comes up to me and commands me to perform a task of some sort. I am surly and tell him, "No, I won't." He is commanding in his posture and I realize this is the ex-marine who finally got my brother under control. I remember that my brother had spent all of his time in the library instead of his class. There he read all day long. An ex-Marine commanded him to go to class and he obeyed. The man was not someone to trifle with. My brother had threatened to stab his teacher and kill her if she attempted to make him attend class. That's how he ended up in the library.
Now the marine is commanding me. I resentfully show him some sort of apparatus I constructed but still does not work. He tells me to go to swim class. I am now at the pool but have forgotten to bring my swim shorts. The other students are girls and stand giggling among themselves at the other end of the pool. They are not laughing at me, however.
I use my apparatus on a hot-air balloon. It now works and the marine commends me. I drift away.
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