Dream Journal Update — On My Knees

Dreams May 29, 2012
The commissioner wants to use my suggested questions during the public meeting; I’m flattered.  And a bit intimidated.  After a while I think he has forgotten about it, but at the last minute he asks me to bring him a copy to take into the meeting.  I don’t have much time; the crowd of people are starting to move in to the other room.  I tell him I will make three copies, so we each have one, and he says good.  I have so much trouble lining up the original on the photocopier screen.  I had written out to the edges, and now it’s hard to get it all on the screen.  I try about ten times until I think I might have it right.  How do I set the controls?  Oh, no!  The machine is set for 50 copies, and I can’t find how to reset it.  I hear it churning away, and all those pieces of paper will be wasted.  I feel so embarrassed.  How can I get someone’s attention to help me?  I’m hitting the cancel button frantically, but it doesn’t do any good.  Oh, okay.  Finally I have it stopped and I reset it to one copy, to test it.  I don’t want anyone to see the wasted copies.  I’ll take them home to dispose.  I keep working to get the copies done, but it’s harder now:  I kneeled down, standing on my knees. But now I can’t get up.  I’m permanently shortened; I’m a little person now.

In the seats above me, one of the women — a beautiful woman — is being nasty and I’m about to retort when I see others raise their eyebrows.  Oh, the woman is the one in charge.  I’ve been warned about her, warned to be nice to her.  I turn my retort into a compliment about seeing another beautiful woman who looks like her at Nordstrom’s.  “With the same beautiful lavender eye shadow.”  She seems appeased but still suspicious of me. 

Then this same woman, this princess, is at the edge of the property, screaming that a princess is in distress — just to see the knights rush in to save her.  It takes a few agonizing silent minutes, but then the knights are running in, running past me, to answer her call.   I am angry with her for toying with the knights, because she is not in any danger, at all.  A few knights are holding back, sitting on the grass picnicking.  They know the routine and aren’t playing anymore.  Now I realize she is living centuries ago, and probably did not have Nordstrom’s, and suspected I was making it up.


“Do you see any colors on this paper, colors besides the print?”

“Yes,” I say.  I tell her about the yellow coloring I see on the pages.  “But I don’t know if it is really there, or if it’s just me, just problems with my eyesight,” I say.

I’m surprised to hear that the yellow I see indicates I’m high in yeast.  Why would that be?  I’m told I must avoid eating sugar, bread, pasta, pastry and other foods I love.  And I must go through abdominal medical tests.  I walk through the wards where others are going through the diagnostics.  The tests require standing on one’s knees on a waterbed — so tough to balance.  I’m afraid I won’t be able to do it.  I give it a try.  “Not yet!”  I’m told.

Oh, people now are sitting back.  You don’t have to spend the whole time standing on your knees; it will be okay.  I hope they don’t find anything.  The doctor explains that people know if they are sick, if there is anything to be found.  “And the first thing they want to know is whether or not their spouse is sick, too.  They are not happy if they will die first. Everyone is like that.  They don’t want the spouse to live on and be happy.”  My father wasn’t like that, I say.  And he was devoted to my mother’s care.  One in a million, he was, I tell them.

We are getting crowded into a room now, standing room only.  I’m afraid that it will be so crowded I’ll become claustrophobic.  There, we can sit down.  People are jockeying for seats; it’s too crowded.  I hold my own on the edge.  I look at people’s plates and the food will cause yeast:  bread, pasta, pastry, rice.  What will I eat?  Oh, there is some meat.  “Steamed chicken.  That is what you want.  Steamed chicken legs.”  I used to eat baked chicken but haven’t for a while.  I wonder why.  I must do so again.  Get rid of the yeast.  Joan Terry is counseling me.  She is thin now, her waist so trim.  Maybe I can get thin again, too.

About B. E. Berger

Making life better by sharing stories and pictures.
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