My latest exploration into digital publishing is collection of dreams put together as HTML, for it's interactive and multi-media possibilities. It can be found at: http://dreamlog.businesscatalyst.com/
243-Men—The location of this dream is more or less the major curve on 6th Avenue East as it becomes Central Entrance, in Duluth, just below the copper roofed church.
It was just a few of us from school, we were adults but still had our ten-year old bodies. Someone’s truck was stuck in the mud and snow. The mood had soured, we had nothing to talk about, and I was doubting that I’d ever be back again. So, I suppose, this must have been some sort of reunion.
Walking home meant going up a steep hill. It was capped by a snowy field, patches of sere grass breaking the surface, and a small but shear cliff of black granite separated it from the street. Across the field a figure dangled from a power line. She was dead. Dead…a geeky, skinny girl in a drab pinafore, white with red print like her skin probably looked when she was alive, before her zits lost their color. Somehow her noose was fastened to the power line, I couldn’t really see how. Suicide, I suppose. Another kid with a bleak future. I’m sure a lot of people were relieved that she’s gone—it’s so embarrassing to be around someone like that, right. I mean, she just didn’t have a chance.
There was another figure, also suspended from the line. This one was hung from her feet, thoroughly bound and gagged. No suicide here. Maybe we should feel sorry for the skinny girl, maybe she didn’t kill herself and someone murdered her before she had a chance to make something of herself—it’s never too late, you know…This woman was heavier, broad shoulders and wide hips, rather short, dressed in light blue corduroy jeans and jean jacket, and really short hair. Totally butch, like a stereotype working class dyke.
She was barely conscious but still alive.
Why didn’t I try to help her down? I just stood there with my hands in my pockets, like dickheads always do, like I really wasn’t a participant in life. True, I couldn’t have gotten her down. But I didn’t even go through the motions. I just stood there, lethargic and indifferent.
As I walked away I said I’d send for help. Maybe she heard me.
I went to my mother’s house, which was home. They wondered where I’d been. Should I tell them? For some reason I couldn’t. I said nothing about the two women on the power line. And I kept putting off the 911 call.