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Are your dreams tricks your sleeping brain plays on you? Or are they treats? Mine are usually treats. They are cinematic extravaganzas. In fact, I am not always in my dreams, and sometimes famous actors are, even if I have no idea who they are at the time and only recognize them later. Or, there was the time after James Gandolfini’s death where I saw him playing the romantic lead in a RomCom dream. Sure, my dreams don’t always make perfect sense, but they are far better than the dreams I hear other people tell about where they are late to a test for which they haven’t studied and they happen to realize they are naked. Those other people’s dreams are definitely tricks. If that is the sort of dream you have, it’s time to sit back and read about another type of dream.
My first realization in this dream found me standing in a 1920s style convertible. It was the type where the opened roof was opened all the way back to the end of the car since, in those days, the trunk was literally a piece of luggage that one tied to a luggage rack on the back of the vehicle. The convertible was bright yellow. It was a larger car with perhaps as many as three banks of seats. At the very least, it was what would have been called a seven-passenger touring car. It was also moving. My middle brother was driving.
I come from a family of three, all brothers. My father was a gruff old policeman. Middle Brother is not gruff. His personality is nothing like Dad’s. What Middle Brother did get from Dad was left-handedness and artistic ability. He also decided to follow my father into being a policeman. The artistic ability matters to this tale because as I was standing in one of the areas between seats, I noticed there were several works of art stuffed into the floor area of the last bench seat in the vehicle.
“Did you paint these?” I asked my brother.
“No, I stole them.”
Given that our father was a law enforcement officer and so is Middle Brother, this came as something of a shock and raised some concern about being in a vehicle with stolen artwork.
“I also fought the Foiler recently,” Middle Brother declared.
As one does in dreams, I immediately knew something. You might have dreams where you know you are late for a test and haven’t studied. In this dream, I knew who the Foiler was. He was a crank who went around in a fencing outfit and stuck people with his fencing foil. The fact that my brother said that he fought the Foiler was interesting. I pictured it as his fighting the crank also armed with a foil. To my knowledge, my brother has never been into fencing and has probably never touched any sort of sword other than a military dress saber. First, my brother is stealing works of art, and then apparently sword-fighting in the streets. What other revelations might such a trip hold for me?
We happened to be on the main street of the city we grew up in and passing Weber’s Dairy when my brother mentioned his fighting the Foiler. I doubt the old Weber Dairy building is there any longer, but we passed it in this big, yellow convertible from the 1920s with hot art in the backseat.
Of course, no sooner was the Foiler mentioned than he appeared at the next intersection with a light. He jumped into our land yacht and started complaining about my brother’s having fought him. I grabbed up the stolen art and handed it to the Foiler and had my brother pull over, so we let the Foiler off at the next intersection with hands full of stolen art. Then, we drove off.
That is not an atypical dream for me. How about you? What sort of dreams do you have? Are they tricks? Or are they treats?