Sunday, April 09, 2006

Poached eggs for Stanley Kubrick

Part of a much longer dream...

I was some sort of spy on a secret mission. I was wearing a tan trench coat. I was in the back of a commercial airliner, awaiting takeoff. The main passenger cabin was in front of me and I was sitting in a windowless galley area which had three seats.

This galley was gray and cheerless. The main cabin, beyond a bulkhead in front of me, was light and airy... windows at every seat, lots of bright, direct sunlight. There were little tables at each seat, like the tables on a train. Not like those stingy, fold-down trays on an airliner.

The plane was a little smaller than a Boeing 737, with maybe 100 seats. It was nearly full, just a few empty seats. People were chatting, playing cards, reading books. It was pleasant and relaxed.

Stanley Kubrick (the film director who made “2001: A Space Odyssey”) was in the second row from the front, on the left. There was a slight buzz among the passengers because a celebrity was on board.

The plane taxied out on to the runway, then climbed smoothly and powerfully into the air. It banked sharply, but not uncomfortably, to the left.

A little girl with long brown hair, wearing a T-shirt with wide, vertical red and white stripes, came into the galley and began preparing a breakfast tray. She was very intent and focused, the way children often are when they’re concentrating on a grown-up task.

“What are you doing?” I asked, grateful for someone to talk to.

“I’m making breakfast for Mr. Kubrick,” she replied brightly. “It’s a surprise,” she added in a mischievous half-whisper, as though letting me in on a secret.

She began making poached eggs on toast. She used a round cookie cutter to remove the center of a slice of white bread, leaving a hole in it that was just the right size for a poached egg. She pulled a small rubber stamp from her pocket and printed something on the leftover piece of bread. She was careful not to crush the bread when she stamped it. She held it up for me.

“See?” she said. “That’s the garnish.”

“Oh! That’s so sweet!” I beamed.

The leftover piece of bread had an “S” stamped on it.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Howard Hughs' UFO

Something from an earlier dream woke me up... something about a bear who had a terrible cut on its neck. There’s blood everywhere. “Yikes,” I said in the dream. “That’s pretty grizzly.” Bad dream pun.

Later... sleeping again...

My friend NG and I lay on our backs in the front yard looking at the stars. In the waking world you can’t see the stars on my city street, but the dream sky is pitch black and star spangled. The lawn has been recently mowed and smells like a wheatgrass juice bar.

We don’t have a telescope or binoculars, but we each have a glass from the kitchen cupboard. When you hold the glass to your eye, it works like a small telescope. We’re studying a fairly large orange fuzzy formation, about half the size of the moon. We’re thinking it must be a nebula or galaxy and we’re surprised at how well we can see it tonight. We agree that we’ve never noticed it before. Through our “telescopes” we can make out a spiral pattern of orange lights. NG says she thinks it’s a spiral galaxy.

It suddenly changes color and begins to flash a pattern of blue and tan lights... very odd and obviously artificial; not a natural formation.

Another friend shows up (JB) and I say to him, “Is that a UFO?”

“Sure is,” he replies.

The sky becomes solid, like a low black ceiling with fluorescent stars painted on it. The UFO is stuck to it and I wonder how. JB says it’s stuck there with little suction cups.

He reaches up and pulls it down. We’re quite surprised by this. It’s much smaller than we thought - about the size of a small plate. It’s also paper thin. JB folds it in half and says it’s part of a secret project run by Howard Hughes (!). He slips it into his shirt pocket and leaves.

I’m suddenly in a sort of bank lobby and NG is gone. There are black rubber mats on an old linoleum floor and room dividers about waist high made of scuffed up old fake wood formica. I realize it’s a newsroom and I’m a reporter interviewing Howard Hughes. Typewriters clatter in the background and somebody walks by with a steaming cup of coffee. Reporters sit at junky old desks, papers piled up everywhere, everyone’s smoking cigarettes.

“Do you deny the existence of this secret UFO program?” I demand.

“No, not at all,” Hughes replies. “We’ve been working on it for years.”

The phone rings and I wake up.