I have a lot of respect and admiration for people who manage their energy better than mine, for people who can socialize for hours yet still feel strong and focused. How many of those people actually exist? I’ll probably never know and this is okay because honestly I ‘snooze’ for at least an hour once we’ve finished errands. Sunday we had to pick up groceries and supplies and apparently people in this area are mostly bored of pandemic precautions as only a third of us are still wearing masks.
Typing for my daily writing I remember a few snippets; I was riding my bicycle on the streets of the Windsor Locks of my dreams [this is the town in which most of my childhood happened, and yes it really exists although I say ‘of my dreams’ because I’ve not visited the place in body for over a decade, and even then was only once or twice. In dreams, however, I’ve visited countless times and often wonder if I haunt some of the streets]
Anyhow, I was returning from an event of some kind where I met 3 other neuro-divergent people questing to become popular online. I exchanged contact information with the one female, chatted with the other female [the other person was a guy and he wasn’t in range, in some capacity] who had waited for me while I wrote my info on a card for the first female.
She walked with me, talking about her youtube channel [she’d recently uploaded her 3rd video] and I thought about creating a buzz for myself by making videos responding to hers [this would be mutually beneficial because her content was designed to start conversations].
I lost her shortly thereafter and suddenly was riding my bicycle down streets busy with a festival of some kind—vibrant colours, groups of dancers, beautiful music and one of the things that popped into mind was that I was slightly saddened that my mother was at home missing this. I may have attempted to send her images from my phone, but couldn’t get the thing to work [which is oober common] so I aspired to bring her a gift instead.
This aspect was a little strange for a few reasons; the first being the fact that my mother died a few years ago and while she hadn’t “come back to life” like she has in other dream stories, she really didn’t need things. The other reason is the simple fact that she had things like I could have brought her, so I feel like these elements are symbolic—especially since I actually had my ‘real life stuff’ with me, so actually had money and a bank card, which is often not the case.
Unfortunately my ‘real life stuff’ was accurate and I didn’t have much money to spend, which was tragic because we all know the good stuff is pricey. I stepped into a 3 sided tent that was filled with scarves and feminine clothing—a woman in traditional Indian dress, aged about 50 years, sat nearby.
I distinctly recall dismounting my bicycle and putting down the kickstand as if the entire machine had shrunk to child’s size—after this, I vaguely remember a man who was dressed very differently [long dark coat, white hair under black fedora] walk behind me from the direction I came, passed me down the ‘little road’ created by 5 or so erected tents. There was a little boy too, age 5-7 or so perhaps, but it’s hard to know if he was truly with the aforementioned man since there were several people in the vicinity.
The thing that happened was; I was abruptly holding a bag that 2 beaded anklets, a beautiful scarf and a lovely blouse that fit snug at the armpits [which I decided was okay because I’ve been shedding some extra weight and this fit seemed validating… or the fact that during the last several months of her life, my mother was easily a few sizes smaller than me]. I sat down right there, filled with appreciation for this mysterious gift—I vocalized my gratitude and asked about the booth-lady’s god, since this event was some kind of cultural festival. She gave me a name, but I don’t remember it now.
Equally mysteriously and abruptly, the shirt I’d had with me but wasn’t wearing, was gone. This is the “my favourite comfy shirt” my mother sent to me before she died; honestly, it looked accurate in the dream, which means it didn’t look like it did when she sent it too me but how it looks recently. It’s not my type of clothing, but it’s very special so I’ve been subjecting it to my newly discovered passion for stitch-work and embroidery. It’s trippy, she’d like it.
Soon I was moving on yet again and eventually got wrapped up in a story about some highborn 20 something man who got kidnapped or whatever and had been put to work, which of course his body couldn’t handle. He was blind and could barely walk because the bottoms of his feet were raw from labor without proper footwear. His uncle managed to track him down, sending some people to pick him up from… perhaps it was a brothel? He’d found a friend, or rather she’d found him and most of the story took place in the kitchen of this establishment.
Unfortunately, apparently, his uncle wasn’t awesome and the dude was going to be eaten by someone? One of the guys sent to collect him was an executioner-type and possibly also the brutal type like a butcher. I remember being escorted down a staircase between 2 brick buildings and it’s likely there was at least one hanging bloody tool.
The next thing I remember is being part of a completely different story, at some weird school that taught magic—though very much less Little Witch Academia and a lot more The Witcher. Until the next season started, as if I’d been part of a show and didn’t know it.