Last night I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details.
I am back at my grandmother’s home. It is the late evening, and her home is crowded with friends and acquaintances who seem to be camping out there. I know them all in my dream, but do not recognize their faces in real life. Her home is a shambles, like we are living in a frat house after a party has finished. Most of the people are college aged, but one of them is a heavyset, middle aged man with a mustache who resembles Philip Seymour Hoffman in “The Master.” The main difference is that the man in my dream has darker hair and a face that is slightly more linear. The mustache man has taken a liking to me apparently, and he is always trying to get me to spend time with him and his wife. At one point, he offers to let me use his swimming shorts for the pool outside. Another time he asks me if I would like to take a swim with him and his wife later that evening. I politely decline every time with the excuse that I have to catch up with my writing.
Stepping away from the other guests I wander into a side room that in fact does not exist in my grandmother’s home. It is an interior room with no window – more like a laundry or a walk-in closet. There are folding tables up against the walls, and open pink cake boxes in a line on each of the tables. I go straight to the table closest to the door, and I zero in on a large, multi-layered, piece of chocolate cake in the back of one of the boxes. I have a hard time sliding out that piece of cake with my hand without breaking it apart. I slide it out and onto a paper plate beside the cake box.
Later the same evening I decide to go for a swim. I do not want to swim with the fat man and his wife, and when I see him sitting at the kitchen table beside some other guests I am careful to avoid his look. At this point, his hair and mustache are even darker, and he looks like the Paul Blart character from “Mall Cop.” The swimming pool is behind him in the portion of the backyard that in fact had had a basketball hoop. Instead of a space for playing basketball, there is a swimming pool occupied by a lot of drunk college coeds. The kitchen window facing this area has been removed, so some of the kids are able to dive directly into the pool from the kitchen.
I pass the kitchen table and enter into the garage. I want to take a shower before going into the pool. In the middle of the garage there is a shower hanging down from the rafter that is surrounded by a circular curtain. It looks like the kind of shower someone would use at a campsite. I am about to undress when a young woman with short hair (similar in look to the model in the photo accompanying the poem I wrote entitled “My Afternoon Girl”) hurries into the garage to get into the shower before me. She has a towel wrapped around her. I decide to wait for her to finish, but then another woman steps forward to take the next spot. She resembles the first woman, and is also wrapped in a towel.
I give up taking a shower, and step back into the kitchen. I am not going to take a dip in the pool after all. I decide to return to my writing.