(Nice Dream)

I had quite the dream this morning. I woke up at the end of it, remembering it vividly. I documented it because it is not very often that you remember a dream. Here it is:

Someone has set a majestic building on fire in my city which is very similar to Waterloo. I scramble to the top of another building to see it. It is pandemonium with police cars and firetrucks everywhere. Once on the roof of a nearby 20 story building, I see the bell tower of the building about 500 metres away, totally on fire with smoke pluming everywhere.

I slip off the roof and I am about to fall to my death, but I grab hold of some old blanket (a huge blanket on the roof - it makes perfect sense) as I am falling. It abruptly runs out of slack and stops. I hold on miraculously. I then start swinging back and forth until I get enough momentum and shatter through a window on the 12th or 13th floor.

I break through and there is a group of 5 seniors playing Parcheesi or Bridge or something. They barely notice me. I explain what happen and they are fairly unimpressed, unbelieving even. I talk to the old guy in the group for a bit then I leave with one of the old women, who happens to be the grandmother of one of my friends. She doesn’t really believe my story, which I am a little saddened by. We walk down what seems like King St. in Waterloo. Where the 7-Eleven is, she turns to go in. In this city, it is not 7-Eleven but a grocery store. As she is walking in, I ask her if we are still on to act in a play together. "We still on for tomorrow night?" I ask. I was also going to make her some straight noodle pasta the night after. This had somehow been agreed upon earlier in the dream but I can’t remember why. She says, “No I don’t think so,” and turns and walks in the store. I am a little hurt, as I think she said no because she doesn’t believe my story.

So I walk home. It is a little flat where MacDonell’s would be in Waterloo. Everyone who lives there with me is kind of indie/grimey, dressed with skinny jeans and shirts stolen out of the Libertines or Strokes catalogue. One of the guys who lives in my flat is on the couch looking like he is comin down from a trip. The apartment is dim and kind of dirty looking. I sit on the couch with my computer and I get a written message on Skype. My French exchange friend Audrey is telling me about how some other exchange student guy slipped and fell off a roof while he was looking at the fire and broke his arm. I re-read and realize that he fell and stayed on the roof, and that is why his injuries were minimal. I explain my story. She says, “Oh you both had the same thing happen!” I am slightly angered that she too does not fully understand how much crazier my fall was. I mean, it was some serious Bruce Willis action.

Out of one of the rooms, Albert Hammond Jr., lead guitarist for the Strokes, walks. I am stunned because I didn’t know he lived with me. I think to make sure it is him, convince myself that it is, then put my computer down and jog out after him. “Albert!” I yell. He turns around, clearly angered that I have stopped him. “Do you live here?” I say. “No, I just like walking around in there you fucking idiot.” He walks away, even more angered. I am hurt and a little embarrassed because I had entertained the idea of asking for an autograph and I now realize that is a childish thing to do. As he walks away, I realize he has blond highlights in his curly white-boy fro.

Then I wake up. Apparently Albert Hammond Jr. dissing me was the last straw.

And there it is Try analyzing that one, my Freudian friends.

DoJo