Woke up screaming today. It was a dream in which the first floor of the house I grew up in in Tampa was in a basement. I went down there after someone stole my desk. As I moved toward the kitchen I saw a thin, short, dark-haired woman moving around quickly, washing dishes and moving hurriedly around the kitchen. I could not see her face but still I knew she was beautiful and that I wanted her. I thought I might have a chance with her if I could prove to her what a nice and decent person I am.
But then I had another thought. I thought I’d be more likely to get her attention if I demonstrated anger, or brusque hostility. I raised my right fist and shouted “HEY! WHO ARE YOU?” Those are the words I woke up screaming. It was intense. The sound of one’s voice when trying to wrench out words through the rigor-mortus-like stiffness of being asleep is, to me, the sound of death rising.
Snapping out of that dream had me puzzled as to why the first floor of that house had somehow become a basement. Basements in Florida are quite rare, found mostly in the north.
More puzzling to me is who the woman was, and why I wanted her so badly but could not find the poise to be decent toward her in that opening salvo of conversation, instead reverting to the type of anger I simply am not capable of expressing with any conviction.
