Tuesday, September 25, 2007

"I was an invisible witness to this scene."

My dream started off with three men, one of whom was slowly sinking into an leaf filled ornamental pond, blood flowing from a bullet hole to his head that formed a ragged circle of dark against pale skin. The other two men, dressed in 1970s tweeds with hats on their heads against the fog and damp, seemed like a pair of unlikely assassins. Older in age, they looked shocked by their barbarism and while one held the murder weapon, nonplussed, the other reached into the pond as if to save the man, to change the unchangable. But he was dead before he even reached the water.

I was an invisible witness to this scene. I made no judgments about these two men and their killing. I was aware of certain things, such as that I was in the past -- 1970s Germany to be exact -- evidenced not just by the clothing of the men but by the cars visible from below the park's elevated perch. The damp autumn air was heavy with mist and the clouds hung low at this altitude.

Floating away, I had no control over my movements as I descended down the slope towards a line of houses below. One in particular drew me like a magnet, a two story home made of white stucco with a low dark roof with a paved area to the side large enough for a car or two to pull into. Inside the house I came to inhabit the body of a 13 year old German boy -- except it was my conscious inside of him. The transition into his body was jarring, especially when his older brother came into the kitchen and asked me something in German.

Once upon a time, having studied the language for four years in high school, I used to be reasonably fluent in German. But since forgetting most of it, my understanding of his question was spotty and my response barely passing. I panicked and squeaked something in both German and English.

The brother, Matthias I think was his name, was warm and forgiving. I immediately liked him and wished he was my real brother. He seemed to have a genuine familial concern as he gathered me in his room to make sure I was okay because I was acting strange. Then the scene shifted to the outside again where I watched the father of the boys pull his dark blue colored car to the side of the stucco house. That's when I woke up never knowing what sort of connection there was between the 13 year old boy and the murder of a man.

The other night I dreamt I won Top Chef.

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