The dream started out with me in the kitchen of a house I’ve never been in before. There was a huge crash which ended up being a rock that was tossed through the living room window. Although one rock was tossed three separate windows were broken. They were broken with the same fractures as if the rock was tossed the exact same way with the exact same speed and everything else precise two more times, right beside the first window. That is of course impossible.
I went outside to see what was going on. Just then a group of people walked up to me and said they were waiting for an ambulance and while they waited could they use my restroom. I looked at everyone to measure their distress level and decided to tell the spokesperson for the group that I wouldn’t be able to do that. Humiliated, embarrassed and ashamed that I had to turn them away, I pointed the group to a restaurant across the street. Of course they were upset (pissed if you will). I tried to explain to one person that I just couldn’t do it. I have obsessive compulsive disorder and I couldn’t let them use my restroom. He shook his head in understanding then left with the small crowd. I’m not sure where they went.
My sister then re-appeared in the dream and told me there was some big to-do at the small cottage in the backyard. I went back there, knocked on the door and was promptly allowed access. Once inside I saw school age children ranging from 6 to 12 years old sitting on wooden benches that lined the first large open room. They were sitting in the dark. No one appeared to be in distress. From the corner of my eye I noticed a lunch box that I thought was mine. A little boy about age 8 said it was his but I insisted it was mine. We got into a tug of war over the lunchbox. After I snatched it with all my might from his little grubby grasp I realized the box wasn’t mine after all. With a very red face I returned it to him and apologized. I tried to remove my mortified self from the cottage but saw that the door was bolted shut. I asked the child why I couldn’t leave. He said it’s a crime scene and everyone is being detained. I told him, “There’s no sign on the door that says if you come in you can’t leave or that there’s a crime scene. Just because I knocked on the door didn’t mean someone had to open the door.” He shrugged and held his lunch box.
I decided to go see what was going on down stairs. When I got down there the cast of Cheers was in the basement torturing a lady from Brazil. Rea Perlman punched the lady in the face so hard she fell backwards from her chair. She did this twice then the lady said, “I grew up in pain, what you’re doing is laughable.” Rea checked with Ted as to what she should do next. He told her violence is too impersonal, get personal. So Rea began asking her about the first time she was hurt. She had the Brazilian hostage write down her experience on a large lined notebook in black marker. The lady wrote in cursive the name of the young boy that first hurt her and the pet name he called her. Rea politely took the oversize notebook and read the experience. She then snatched off the lady’s green headscarf to reveal long curly dark brown hair which covered knife marks on her neck. She pulled the woman’s head back by her hair and began taunting her with the very story she was told. She began calling the woman by this pet name directly in her face. The hostage began to melt down and weep and beg. She was right back at the very first moment when she was powerless. There was no strength in the hostage anymore, no determination, no drive, no rebellious stance of “I’ve been through worse, your kind are laughable.” She was a puddle. She was a little girl.
As I watched from across the room I felt myself growing angrier and angrier at the Brazilian hostage. Why did she trust Rea? Why did she write down her experience in such detail and do so as if Rea wanted to move past torture and into closeness? The hostage wrote the experience in the chair with her arms tied down. She was able to use her hands but she was still tied. I suppose that tiny bit of freedom gave her enough room to trust. I was furious with the hostage for putting herself in a position to be taunted and tortured. ( see commentary ) In my frustration I went up stairs and sat beside the young boy once again. As I did a group of men from the DEA came from a second basement room carrying cases of cocaine and other drugs. I was anxious to leave before they discovered the hostage. I didn’t want to be questioned about what I saw.
As I grew nervous the spokesperson I saw previously came to me with a proposition. He said he could get me out of that situation if I allowed his friend’s sick and dying wife to use my restroom. I knelt down in front of him and his friend and wrote on a small piece of paper. When he read it I realized it wasn’t what I meant to say at all. What I intended to write was “Get me out of here” which meant I’d let the woman use my restroom. What I actually wrote was, “I can’t let you come in my home and roam freely just because you want to.” The spokesman wasn’t as understanding as the first time. He shrugged his shoulders and looked away from me.
I woke up.
DREAM Broken Windows and Hostages- Friday, January 23, 2009
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