Last night I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details:
I am pursuing a job as a producer with a major Hollywood film studio. In order to achieve this goal, I am trying to exchange a friendly word with a producer. I wander down a safe, quiet, residential neighborhood looking for him. There is no one else around. It could be a 1950s suburbia film set where the actors and the crew are out of town. I turn off of the road and stroll across the manicured lawn of a midcentury home. Swinging open a wood gate along the side of the home, I see a side door into the garage. I slip into the garage. It is dark and overstuffed with old car parts, carpet rolls, and boxes. There are also crew working in there, though they are too dark for me to identify them. A man in a turtleneck and trousers who looks like Peter Bogdanovich steps up to me. He stands underneath a solitary light bulb that illuminates him. He is reserved, professional, and a bit aristocratic in his mannerisms, but he seems affable enough with me. The one word he says that is clear is “illumine.” He may have said “jurisdiction illumine.” He agrees with a slight nod of his head to introduce me to one of the higher ups.
Later, I am inside the garage of another suburban home. There is even more crew milling around. They are preparing for a shoot, but again are working in the dark. There is a cigar chomping, balding, fat, ogre type standing closer to the side door. He is lighted in part by the sunlight outside and the embers from his cigar. He is a smiling, glad handing, phony, but I am happy to get his ear for a moment. He is friendly with me but noncommittal. He seems careful never to extend himself too much in any one direction.
There is an elderly black woman in a brown and white polkadot dress. She is seated on a bench in a park. The ground beneath the bench is a circle of mud. Beyond the mud circle is dry grass, and beyond that is an endless forest of dying trees and thorn bushes. It is a terribly hot afternoon with flies overhead. The woman is minding her own business when a heavyset, young, black man in a chauffeur’s cap walks up to her. He laughs at her, and calls her a “nigger.” He thrusts an empty bowl into her hands, which she puts on her lap. She looks up at the bully but says nothing, while he continues to laugh at her.
Later, the elderly black woman is in her home. She is dressed in a feminine sailor’s suit. Her sailor pants are cuffed at her knees. She has curled her hair and put makeup on her face. She is happy, flirtatious, and fun, and looks and moves considerably younger than her advanced years. She is the hostess of a party, and I am one of the guests. I converse with her in her foyer and find her to be really charming. The other guests are inside her kitchen and living room. I cannot tell much about them, but the home is definitely upper class, well decorated, and brightly lit.
The younger black bully in the chauffeur’s cap is seated on the park bench alone. This time, he has an oversized backpack that is pressing down on his shoulders. He is very hot, sweaty, and uncomfortable. He keeps looking up at the flies and holding up a hand to keep out the overbearing sun. The elderly black woman, still dressed in her chic and sexy sailor’s suit, walks up to the bully. She hands him back the empty bowl. She does not say a word. He looks up at her and snarls. She walks away and leaves him alone.
I am watching the black bully with the empty bowl from the side of the mud circle. As I continue to watch, I am lifted into the air, so I am looking down and moving away from what happens next.
Still clutching the empty bowl, the bully stumbles forward and lands on his knees. The mud circle is now dark brown and wet. The bully’s backpack bursts, and human bones fly out every which way. The bully is submerged beneath the human bones, while mud slaps up against him. The park is sliding in on itself and slithering into a deep abyss.