I wonder how long I will have to live in a place before I dream it’s home…
I never dream about the apartment I live in now. I have never dreamed about the house I used to share with my (now ex) wife. I have never dreamed about the duplex I lived in before that. I dream constantly about the house my mom still lives in just outside Ann Arbor, where I did most of my growing up. I don’t ever dream about the three or four places we lived before moving there, either… Toledo, Pittsburgh, Virginia…
It’s always that house, that yard, that gravel driveway (it’s paved now).
Like last night, when I dreamed that Amanda Palmer was on tour and needed a place to crash after a show, so I volunteered my old bedroom, where we chatted long into the night about the rigors and joys of the touring life, and then fell asleep together on my old twin bed.
Which is ridiculous, really, for many reasons. But it was briefly cozy in my mind.
After that, (or maybe before, it’s hard to remember), I dreamed about following a strange sport in which a bowling tournament was held in a series of impromptu alleys set up in various barns and abandoned buildings; and participants had to run or bike from one location to the next after each set of “frames” (or whatever they’re called if you don’t have the actual framey-things).
There was a strange, tall man in a lab coat standing by, perhaps a medic? He had a long kitchen knife which he used to scrape out the inside of his right eye-socket, which was empty. He explained that he used to have a prosthesis, but he got tired of it falling out or needing adjustment, so he just stopped wearing it. Also, he enjoyed freaking people out by putting a knife in his eye-socket. I shared with him a (fictitious) story about a teacher I once had in grade school with no feeling in his right leg, the result of some wayward shrapnel in ‘Nam. He used to “accidentally” drop a bowling ball on his foot to alarm people.
I must have gotten that from Adam Sandler.