In this dream, I am an old white man, round and wrinkled, with wispy white hair across my bald, mottled head. I’m a little like Mr. Magoo.*
I am on a junk heap, the kinds of mounds of trash you see on the news when they talk about the shame of countries that have whole families living in these discarded wastelands, making a living out of picking through trash. I am on a small hill of refuse in a sea of garbage. I am sitting in a wing chair.
Behind and to the left of me there is a low wall and a row of people stand along the wall.
One of those people — another old white man, but very tall and Giacometti walking-men skinny — steps up behind me and leans over to say in my ear, “Are you enjoing your money?”
I don’t respond, so he says it again, a little louder, “Are you enjoying your money?”
And I stand, take a quick survey of the trash around me and see a baseball bat sticking out of the junk. I grab it and find that the end is broken, somehow still attached but dangling. I look at it for a minute and then rush the speaker, rush the other folks at the wall, swinging the bat wildly, trying to club them, shouting the question over and over: “Are you enjoying your money?! Are you enjoying your money?! Are you enjoying your money?!”
I don’t understand the dreams, I just have them. All interpretations welcome!
* The part of me that was aware that I was dreaming took a good long look at old-man me because he was so surprising. This wasn’t the first time I’ve appeared as a man in a dream — or even the first time I’ve appeared as a white man — but the first time I can remember being an old white man. I’m interested in the way my lucidity worked in this dream. I didn’t change anything, just looked really hard at what was already there. I was fascinated by the me in the dream, the round old man.