Releasing Skeletons Dream

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

I am standing beside an Olympic sized swimming pool in the center of a brick patio. The patio juts out from the penthouse suite of a downtown skyscraper. Beyond the white and red brick railing are the tops of buildings in every direction. It is night, and a thick fog has settled in for the duration. The buildings sift in and out of the fog like ships with sails that are passing through the haunted darkness. Tiki torches light the patio, and the result is a dreamy haze that is vaguely alluring and frightening. I feel like I could look over my right shoulder at any moment, and there would be just as much a chance of witnessing a sexy woman disrobing as a bloodied murder victim. The patio is full of young, nubile, College coeds in swim shorts or bikinis partaking in a loud, cocktail fueled, pool party. I am there but not part of the party. I am dressed in a white suit and a white and red polkadot ascot tie. Because of my older age and my outfit, I feel out of place, and I step back toward the sliding glass door so as to watch everything from the shadows.

While standing beside the sliding glass door that leads into the penthouse suite, I feel a pair of eyes watching me. I look over to my right. There, also standing beside the sliding glass door, is a pretty, dark haired, College coed in a jean skirt and a sweater. She has the big hair and the flirty demeanor of a Valley Girl in the mid 1980s. She smiles at me, and I return her smile. I look down and see beside me my cherry red, black trimmed, Victorian steamer trunk. I know it is mine because of the ivory latches. I look back at the girl, who is now looking away from me, and I wonder if she can fit inside of this antique trunk with everything else that is in there.

Something catches my eye from the other side of the swimming pool. I see three middle aged people like myself walking fast and with intention around the irreverent partiers on that side of the pool. The lead two are white, dark haired, men in big, Peter Bogdanovich glasses and red ascot ties. They are wearing white shirts tucked into hot pink swimming shorts. They are clutching clipboards that they study very intently while weaving around the coeds. Several paces behind them is a blond woman in white shirt and shorts who is protecting her hard, lined face from the soft tiki torchlight with a visor, a pair of oversized sunglasses, and an overabundance of facial cream. She is puffing on a cigarette, while at the same time weaving around the coeds and studying her clipboard. I gather that these three are producers attending to their star. I watch as they approach a barbershop chair no more than a foot away from the edge of the pool. A man sitting on that chair could dip his feet into the pool with ease, if he wanted to do so. Beside that chair is a table holding up a curvy, sequined cocktail glass of strawberry daiquiri. There is indeed a man seated on that chair, but he is completely covered by a white and red polkadot sheet. He is not moving at all, and I wonder if instead he is a life sized, marble or wood statue. I look off before the three producers reach the barbershop chair.

I am standing in the cramped cargo hold of a rickety, World War II era, troop transport propeller airplane. The airplane is flying through a heavy pocket of turbulence. As I look out the windows to my left side I see moonlit clouds breaking up, now and then, and the occasional whisper of stars off in the distance. A lightbulb switches on above me, and I see that there is a teacher’s cherry red, wood desk centered near the back of the cargo hold. Michael Caine is seated behind the desk. He has the long hair, thick glasses, and middle aged, lined face from when he appeared as Jon Lansdale in “The Hand.” He has the smarmy look on his face like when he was Alfie undressing a woman with his eyes. He is jostled side to side in his chair by the turbulence, but he seems unfazed. He looks directly ahead toward the front side of the cargo hold. I cannot tell if he is really looking at something there, or if he is caught up in his own thoughts. Regardless, he snaps out from his concentrated focus after awhile, and gestures for me to get along with the task. It is then that I see countless human skeletons stacked on top of one another across the cargo hold. The bones are rattling hard against the metal fuselage floor and sides. Every one of the skeleton bones looks like it has been whitewashed, for there is not even a hint of the blood and the flesh that would have been attached to them earlier. I look back at Michael Caine. He lowers his heavy eyelids like he is studying something upon his lap. I look away from him, and then grab onto the metal rafter beam above me. I hold onto the beam while walking across the cargo hold toward the hatch. My steps are very slow and precarious, for I do not want to step onto any one of the thin skeleton bones by mistake. I reach the hatch, and again look back at Michael Caine, but he is continuing to stare into his own lap. I turn away from him, clench my teeth in fear, and then open the cargo hold hatch, while holding on tight. The fierce wind snaps the hatch off of the hinges. My feet fly up into the air and almost out the portal, but I hold on tightly enough to stay inside the cargo hold. The skeletons fly out through the portal and into the moonlit clouds by the side of our airplane. I pull myself back toward the other side, while chattering skulls and snapping bones fly by me toward the portal. I feel wounds opening up everywhere on my skin as the bones strike me on their way outside.

When I return to where I started, I manage to rest my feet again upon the floor, but I am careful still to hold onto the metal rafter. I see that some of the skeletons slide along the outer glass of the windows before breaking apart completely in the turbulent air outside. Those skeletons look like they are trying in vain to scratch their fingernails into the glass in order to save themselves from falling back into oblivion. Their lined skull faces smash up against the glass and stare back at me. There are no eyes in their dark sockets, but I can feel them anyway looking at me.

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

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

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