Sunday, 12 April 2020

Dream journal: Eighteen

This is the eighteenth in a series of posts chronicling dreams I have had. As usual, the date shown is the date the dream was captured. This is always the morning after the night the dream took place. You can’t wait very long before capturing a dream because it soon disappears from memory.

20 January

Dreamt I was with two friends I knew at school in real life. Greg is now a financial adviser and Adam is a journalist. I call them by their first names, the ones they actually have and have always had. Greg lives in Sydney and drives a European car. Adam lives in Melbourne and likes classic watches.

In the dream, we were talking about Jerusalem as Adam, in the dream, was to visit that city. He asked me where he should go while there and I asked him where he would be staying. He gave me some sort of answer that didn’t specify and I was flummoxed as it is important if visiting Jerusalem to stay near the old city, where most of the hotels are for reasons of convenience.

But he wouldn’t tell me, so I took a different tack. I held up a hand and started counting on my fingers to list the best destinations. I said that you should visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and Greg briskly agreed. I was trying to remember the second good destination but it eluded me (it was actually another church, Ayasofya, which is in Istanbul, that I was trying to remember). I said you have to go to the Israel Museum.

I described my own visit to the Middle East for Adam’s benefit. I told him that I had gone from Sydney to Abu Dhabi, then caught a plane to Jordan. After spending time in Petra and Amman, I said, I had gone over the border into Israel. I wanted to say that the trip changed my life but there was no opportunity for me to divulge this information.

30 January

Dreamt I was on top of a massive Italianate building that had many levels. A book sale was on that had been organised by Gleebooks, in real life a Sydney bookseller. I found on a shelf a book of letters by an Australian author named Antonella Gambotto-Burke, for which, in an earlier era of my life (in the dream world), I had written the preface. As I was walking down the spiral passage toward the building’s exit I was reading the preface I had written all those years ago. In real life I had spoken with this author when writing an assignment given to students during my journalism degree (2006-08), and now was friends with her on social media. The preface, I saw, had some errors in it.

The passage I was walking on had been built into the periphery of each floor of the building and on it there were other people, like me, walking toward the exit. Books were piled up around the place in untidy stacks. I paid for the two-volume set of letters I had been reading and made it to the exit but then found that I had lost the books I had been absent-mindedly reading.

I then bought a second set of books the same as the first and found that I was back up the building – I had turned round to go looking for the lost volumes – so had to go downstairs again. A storm was brewing in the distance and it looked like it would rain. I was calculating how much money the bookseller would have made during the sale and came up with two figures: $100,000 and $1 million. It would have been worth it to hold the sale, I guessed, even though it appeared likely that a lot of stock would soon be damaged by rain.

I jumped down off moulded ledges to lower points, from where I would be able to get out of the place. As I was going down the last sections of the course I was looking at the pages of one of the volumes of letters and comparing what I saw there to what was in front of me in space. The message seemed to be that fascism was inevitable and I reflected, in the dream, on the realities of Italian politics in real life. The future seemed dark.

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