I dream I move to London.
After 10 days of a hormonally induced nosedive, nightmares, and creative paralysis, the grip breaks finally and I dream of moving to London. I don’t enter a lovely row house in a leafy green village of my fantasy. Instead in a chain of four consecutive dreams, I dream of the moving process in linear time. Bright and early on a sunny morning I indicate to shadowy movers what furniture to take from my parents’ old house and from my condo-but-not-my-condo. In a blink, we shift to the London car park of my new home. We realize Something Has Been Stolen, but not a car because I don’t drive. I need to call the police. Meanwhile, my relative-but-not-my-relative commandeers the process and they bustle quickly, eventually getting away from me. I am angry to lose control. They have my keys and I’ve never seen my new place. Suddenly, I am there in my new bustling mid-rise, The Ritz (but not that Ritz), moving determinedly up four flights and across a short passage until I reach a silver matte door, unit 1617A in bold embossed numbers. I push open the door, and there is my relative-but-not-relative arranging my furniture before an empty stone fireplace. I note to light the fire and admire in the foyer the funky retro silver wallpaper with a black and white trellis of vines.
Then I’m pulled away to a hotel room in the building, to a mystery of Twilight Zone proportions that must be solved as night falls. The Doctor is nowhere in sight. Suddenly it’s morning. My shadowy movers and I hug, having Saved the World. We decide to play a game on ice that’s not hockey. I sit it out because I don’t skate. The not-hockey-puck flies and knocks a spectator out cold. Woops.
It’s a surreal celebration.
Happy belated New Year!