42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

I dreamed this a couple of days ago, so I don’t remember it as vividly as I did. I didn’t write it down then because I was attempting to be good about not blogging while there was packing to be done.
Well, the packing still isn’t quite done, but I’ve worked hard today. Honest.

The theme seemed to be surveillance, of someone always watching. Of a not too distant totalitarian society where everything you say can and will be held against you.
There’s an underground society that I’ve only vaguely heard of. As an upstanding citizen, I of course can’t be heard talking about it or expressing interest. I’m only allowed my own thoughts, and I know that I’m increasingly worried about my freedom.

I’m in what seems to be like a big room like the backstage of my high school auditorium. Painted black with wood floors. A bit dusty. Kind of like a cafe. Communal. People come and go, hang out. I’m with friends, and a young woman stumbles in, looking like she needs help.
Her skin is very pale, and her hair must be close cropped and light. She reminds me of the female precog in The Minority Report.
She looks confused, and I go to talk to her. But she can’t speak, and I realize that she either doesn’t have the language, or perhaps is deaf. She signs to me, and somehow I understand, and she speaks indistinctly to punctuate some of her signs, as if she is in fact deaf, but once had hearing.
I realize she’s asking for help, and all the other people are studiously ignoring her, turning their backs to her. I know there’s a hatch that leads underground, but I don’t know where. She’s urgent now, distressed, looking around in fear.
I take her to the hatch, and sign to her to hide.
The hatch is a bit like an airlock, with a big wheel. I don’t know how this manages to be hidden. Perhaps I put a piece of furniture over it.
My friends are still ignoring the situation, and pretending to be enjoying themselves.
Some troops in black clothes rush in, but no one can tell them anything. The friends are doing this much; not letting them know that they’ve seen the girl.
I try to blend in with the friends, but I’ve never been good at lying. Somehow, I manage to be convincing, and the troops go away.
But my friends make it clear again that they want to have nothing to do anything with this, and perhaps not me.
We’ve never talked about subversive things because you never know who is listening, or who you can trust. But I’ve always been the one to stand slightly apart. My friends all make excuses about how they need to be somewhere else. They don’t want to be tainted by my more overt rebellion.
I realize I’ve done something rash, but I don’t regret it.
I don’t go to the hatch, either, to see if the girl is OK. Perhaps there’s a network that goes underground, because though I think about her, I don’t worry too much. She will be OK now.

Later, I am set up by one of my remaining friends to have a date with this attractive man with a little boy.
I make a weak protest about not wanting to date (and not wanting to deal with one more aspect of watching myself) but I go to dinner at the man’s house.
He’s olive complected, with a dark mane of hair. He’s wearing a dark sweater with a collared shirt under.
I had come to this meeting dressed well enough, but my heart wasn’t in it. I do it to seem more normal. I do it to pass the time. I do it to because I can’t figure out a reason why not.
I find him very attractive. But hard to talk to. We seem to have nothing in common. I can’t talk about the one courageous act of mine. I don’t even know what became of the girl, although somehow there’s a thought lurking in my mind that says she might need help. That perhaps I should investigate where that airlock goes.
As I sit at dinner, homemade by this man, my nagging feeling of urgency is growing.
The apartment is also very nice; decorated tastefully but a little soulless. There’s grand crown molding and a chandelier hanging over the dark, highly polished table. I have a feeling he must be someone important because I can’t live in such luxury.
We must talk about bland things, in these days where no one can be trusted. Orwellian, I suppose, but great deal less gray and bleak. The food is still good, I guess.
His son is a toddler, and also very cute. I can see myself caring for this child. I find myself interacting with him and trying to amuse him. He’s well-behaved, and I’m grateful for that.

There’s a sense of a passage of time. I continue to see the man, though I have no feelings for him. It’s like it’s something to do besides worry. I don’t know what I do for a living, and I don’t know what he does for a living. It’s safe to say I’m no longer a journalist; there is no freedom of speech. But we both continue to see each other, and I get the feeling that he probably isn’t into me either. But the little boy seems to need the love, and I do grow to love him. I have the vague understanding that the boy’s mother is dead, killed rather than from sickness.
My interactions with this man are subdued, much like his apartment. Muted, dull but painless.

I’m on a busy city corner with my father and stepmother. We’ve just finished eating a little cafe, and wait at the crosswalk.
I look up at the sky and see little specks in the air. I’m fascinated by them, and they seem to come closer, zigging crazily through the clear blue sky.
There are swarms of the objects, like insects, only it’s clear they’re not insects. Some sort of highly maneuverable aircraft. They get closer, zooming down into the city. Some people are terrified by them, go inside. I stand patiently outside, wondering if I am going to be taken away at last.
But this operation does not seem to be aimed at me. Usually, if you’re taken away, it’s done more quietly than this. No reason to scare the entire city with what must be hundreds of aircraft.
I stand, and one larger vehicle lands. A door opens, much like a bus door, and some people from my high school are in there. They all look terrified, and one of them beckons to me. I go over calmly.
Don’t say anything, he whispers frantically in my ear. They’re listening. They’re listening!
I nod mutely, and back away when he motions me to go. I have gotten nothing out of this interaction other than a warning that I already know.
But perhaps the warning is meant that I am being watched more carefully now. All the terrified people I can see through the windows look wan, thin.

More of the smaller craft zoom in closer, and closer, landing on the streets in swarms.
I get a good look at them now. They are not all that big; perhaps the size of a car, but have huge fronts that remind me of rounded Hummers or perhaps Durangos. Something large and intimidating and truck like.
I’m not panicking, as my family has long scurried inside.

Perhaps this raid is just about listening. Nothing happens to me. For now.

Sense of more passage of time. I think I am found by the underground society; the girl I once helped has found a way to welcome me in.
And it is literally underground, in elaborate passages under the city and elsewhere.
But I am chosen to work in the outside world still, carefully listening and reporting back. I must keep an even tighter lid on my mind. Unlike in Winston’s drudging reality, there are no Thought Police, and no reeducation. The one thing I do totally own is my mind.
I help other people go underground. I run into the little boy that I once cared for much more than his father.
He is in his early 20s now, wearing a dirty blue jean jacket, with long hair flowing down his back.
Though I knew him as a toddler, I have only aged a handful of years. My face is perhaps a little more lined, and a few more gray hairs have appeared. But I don’t look as old as I must be for this to be the same little boy.
I hug him happily, and ask him how he is doing. He looks nervous, like he needs help, so I go with him and talk to him.
He takes me to his father’s old apartment. I don’t know what happened to the father; I get the sense that he is dead. The apartment is very dusty, and the once-rich drapes are halfway torn down. The chandelier and molding are falling down too.
There is an older man who occupies this apartment now, and he appears to be some official. I fear for my safety, but the young man insists it’s fine. We are not introduced, and the man talks quietly to the older man with thick, gray hair. I look around in dismay at the decay of the apartment. I have the sense that the relative good years when I knew his father are long past, and now we’ve a approached a grimmer, leaner reality where resources are few. Where repairs cannot be made for unnecessary luxuries.

More time passes, and I run into the young man again. He is excited when he sees me, and wants to talk about what I’ve been doing all this time. As I had responded at our last meeting rather vaguely, I try to dance around it again. I want to hear about you, I tell him. You’re so old, so mature. I can’t believe it.
But he keeps steering me back to what I’ve been doing. My official story is whatever job I’ve been holding all this time. Perhaps writing official drudgery propaganda somewhere, since all I’m good for in real life is working with words, and because journalism is not an option any more. Or perhaps I work at a library. Whatever it is, it’s not exciting, but something to justify my maintenance by the state. We’re all owned by the state, suffered to live by the state.
I get alarmed now as the man tries to bring back the subject again. I try to get him to remember how we played together when he was a child.
Then it hits me; he’s bugged.
I leap at him, holding him in a fierce hug or grapple, as I pull under his clothes to discover a little black spot adhered to the skin on his chest. And in distraction, I realize the listening devices look a little like bugs.
I can’t believe this, I yell at him, as I remove the bug and crush it under my heel. I loved you like a son! And then I search him for more. Somehow, he doesn’t struggle at this point while I find another attached to his leg, and another to his arm.
Perhaps he’s stalling now for reinforcements to come.
I push him to the ground, where again, he’s oddly unresponsive. He doesn’t care what happens to him now, and I feel a bit violent. Like I want to punch him out.
Only I don’t have the time, and he doesn’t appear ready to come after me. Perhaps this is his one act of defiance in defense of the person who used to love him like a mother.

I run away now, and run to the safety of my underground. Angry at the betrayal, but ultimately not expecting anything better in this gray, dull society which preys on fear of abnormal action or thought.