Fairground Tour Dream

Last night I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details.

I am in a group tour of a fairground. It is a clear summer day, and the terrain consists of hills and flat stretches of well manicured lawn. There is a line of work offices and sheds with corrugated roofs beside me. Workmen ahead are putting up the concession stands and the rides. I need to go to the bathroom. Looking behind me I see a trailer home that stands apart from the offices. I step away from the tour to search out a bathroom there.

I stand before the screen door. It is unlocked, and when I open it I observe that there is a traditional door behind it. Fortunately, that is unlocked too. I step inside and to the left see a kitchen that resembles my maternal grandmother’s old fashioned farm kitchen. As the kitchen window shades are pulled down, the sunlight that manages to bleed into the space is weak. The appliances and furnishings look drab and dust covered. It feels like a room from the past. I walk through the kitchen and down a narrow hall. The door on the other end of the hall is closed. I sense that that leads to the bedroom, and I also sense that the famous actress Julia Roberts is in there. I do not want her to know that I am in her place, and so I quietly slip into the bathroom to the left. I shut the bathroom door as softly as I can, and hope that she has not heard me. It is very dark and dirty in there, but I manage to find the toilet beside the sink.

I am in a hot air balloon flying over the fairground. Some time has passed, for the fair is in full swing. There are many concession stands below, and also the line of work offices and sheds with corrugated roofs, but there are no rides. Mostly middle aged and well to do people wander around with plastic cups of wine. They look like the kind of crowd one would see at the Concours d’Elegance. There is a small band somewhere playing Mozart. From my altitude the people are the size of action figures. I do not see their faces, but I do see a lot of balding heads, white turtleneck sweaters, and plaid pants. Someone is in the hot air balloon with me. I never see that person in my dream, but we seem to be old friends having a relaxed conversation. I talk about how TV shows need to be careful to retain the basic elements of the formula that made them successful in the first place. I use “Magnum P.I.” as an example. I say that some of the later episodes downplayed or ignored altogether the friendly banter between Magnum and his friends, TC and Rick, in favor of heavier drama. I suggest that the show faltered as a result, though I am careful to add that the 1980s “Magnum P.I.” remains the best TV show of all time. We decide to make a landing, and so I scout a patch of lawn that will accommodate our balloon. I see the lawn get closer, as we descend from the sky to the earth, and I feel a brief sensation of falling. I see the shadow cast by the hot air balloon spreading across the lawn. Then, we have landed, and we step away. I look back and see the deflated balloon lying limp on the lawn. It looks like a toy a child might use. It is thin and gray, and the middle aged people are about to step on it without even noticing.

I am back inside the bathroom. I am naked and holding a gold padlock key. Because I am naked I have nowhere to pocket the key, so I contemplate stuffing it inside of my penis. I see a closeup of the tip of my own penis and the jagged end of the key. I poke the jagged end of the key gently into the penis opening. Before I manage to get the key inside of me, someone knocks on the bathroom door. I set the key down, and I look at the bathroom door. I have no idea what to say.

I am standing in a library with a number of fine and distinguished men. I understand the fairground is outside, but the curtain is drawn, so I cannot see it. We are all assembled around a middle aged, brunette woman in a red dress. She is not particularly attractive, but professional and pleasant in demeanor. We all respect her like a group of attorneys might a seasoned judge. A naked man is bent over in front of her. I do not see him but know that he is there. Indeed, no one ever looks at him directly. The woman paddles his rear end repeatedly without paying much attention to him. Since the man never reacts, he may have lost consciousness or is dead. Regardless, without seeing anything, I sense that the carnage is brutal, but that fact never interferes with the affable pleasantries we all share with one another.

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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