Disjointed with tornadoes
It seems all I did this morning was sleep. I caught hold of that precious, rare time of drifting between wakefulness and sleep and dreaming, and tried to drift back into dreaming if I could. And I did.
I’m still driving my first car, a brown ‘77 Oldsmobile, two years younger than I am. It has holes in the floor (for the record, I do not, though I am older) and by the time I reluctantly abandoned it to being parted out, there wasn’t much that operated as it was supposed to.
In it, I’m in the middle of a road trip, traveling across country to find my fortune. I must be younger than I am now. I’m still full of optimism and naivete, and don’t distrust people. Buoyant, energetic, passionate, before sarcasm took over.
In one of my stops along the way, I am befriended by an older woman who takes me in for a while. She is flattering to me, helps me to change my appearance. My hair, still long, she begins dressing up, piling on top of my head.
I’m wearing a sloppy t-shirt and jeans; she tries to transform me into someone who wears adorable skirts.
I don’t mind the transformation until one day, several days into the process, I discover some men watching me. I learn that she has been parading me, changing me from the little girl to someone she can sell into prostitution.
It’s not too late for me; I break free and flee the woman. She is angry that I would throw away her so-called concern for my appearance, for my growth into real womanhood, still pretending she didn’t have a bunch of old men leering at me in their striped shirts and old, shiny polyester pants.
I take off again, and find a place to work near an old mine. I keep an impression of miners, of a dark entrance and the dim light at the periphery.
I befriend a kindly old man. He is tired from working, but he’s not allowed to rest. I don’t think he will lose his job, but he need desperately to stop working.
I offer to let him sleep in my car while I’m out.
It’s quite hot out, but he rolls down the windows and reclines the seat. I’m embarassed by all the junk that has accumulated in the car in my wanderings. But the old man doesn’t seem to mind.
When I return to the car later, the old man still appears to be sleeping. But when I look at him closer, he appears to be dead.
I panic. I didn’t want to leave him out here, to his death.
I search for help, for someone to help save him or confirm his death, and when I return, the car is gone too.
The car was parked on a cliff near the ocean; I look down and see the carcass of my car far below. I wonder if the old man awoke and drove it off the cliff, or if something more sinister happened. Like someone came to kill the old man in his sleep, and then returned to finish the job, killing my car too.
Another dream comes with tornadoes.
I am living in a big city with a group of friends in a large apartment. Between us, there also are several children. I am outside, strolling down the street, enjoying the tall buildings as if I’ve never seen them before. Perhaps I’ve just moved here.
The sky turns dark, as much as you can see with the skyscrapers blocking much of the light anyway.
Menacing clouds roll in, and there’s talk of taking shelter from the rain. But the part of me that loves storms, the part of me that yearns for them in real life, wants to stay out and watch.
It doesn’t rain, but the clouds gather and form a funnel. I don’t hear the sound, and it seems like the funnel is above the buildings, but not yet close enough to do damage.
The cloud is white, unthreatening and doesn’t see capable of doing much.
Yet people are starting to run inside, and it occurs to me that my friends and the children could be in danger, and then I should warn them.
I go looking for them, find a child outside, on a fake train engine, and try to usher the child off. But the child doesn’t want to go in.
The sense of danger is growing. The white funnel cloud collapses, and a couple of blocks away, an ugly gray one begins dipping down, ripping up glass and structures like a child pulling up grass.
A big structure, that reminds me both of the Statue of Liberty and a zeppelin or blimp, has been toppled, and comes slowly hurtling down to the street.
I watch with detached concern, trying to round up more children.
I go inside, and find another child taking a nap on a bed in a beautifully decorated apartment. I don’t know if it’s the apartment we all share, or if it’s the place of another friend. I know that I’m trying to urge the child to get up so we can go somewhere safer.
Another child I find is very tiny, like Thumbelina. She is found easily, though. I have the impression that the storm has changed her, made her small.
All the people around me seem to think the danger is over, but I am calm yet motivated to move people to safety. Perhaps another cloud will come. Perhaps the same one is moving toward us right now.
I just know it’s not over.
