Last night I dreamt that I followed Michael Powell around like a puppy. I don’t really know what he looked like, but in the dream he was a mixture of Michael Redgrave and Jean-Pierre Leaud‘s director character in Irma Vep, only slightly heavier. I was determined to gain his love in that charming 1940s romantic comedy way. It was a very talky pursuit, and I ended up chasing him down a deserted street.

I didn’t even watch a Michael Powell movie last night. Last night’s films were Giant and one-third of Faces.

Having watched Night of the Hunter again last night, I dreamed about Robert Mitchum, of course. I think I was interviewing to be his personal assistant.

I also started my new job, but it was incredibly frustrating. I would always be given little thirty-minute tasks without having the big picture explained to me. I never knew how my contributions would help at all. I was told how to work different software programs when I already knew how, thus wasting a lot of time.

I got the pay sheet from the city. They had all of the benefits and their estimated values spelled out in a column. I learned that a person could earn $90k a year wearing a Gumby outfit and it was classified as Office Assistant IV. Child care was optional, but also took $9000 out of your payroll checks.

Kathleen told me that she couldn’t take off the Friday before Labor Day because she felt guilty, “it being a holiday and all.” I told her that was fine; I’d just leave work at noon on Friday instead of at night.

I was back in my high school, taking pictures on the last day with Luke. He disappeared into a gumball machine, and I had to talk through speakers to him. I told him I was sorry he had to put up with me in kindergarten. He said it was fine. Then I ended up taking the littlest kid from Malcolm in the Middle and a few others out to dinner. At the end of one of the tales told, he added “because he’s dead.” I laughed and told him he should add that at the end of every story. They weren’t my kids, after all.

I’ve had lovely Technicolor dreams lately.

Two nights ago, after watching both The Godfather and Rosemary’s Baby, I got the expected results: highly stylized dreams with wonderful cinematography. They weren’t particularly disturbing, that I can remember, but I did have a checklist that was somehow related to murder.

Last night, my dreams were mostly influenced by Rebel Without a Cause, although some traces of In This Our Life remained. (Thankfully, Forbidden Games played no role that I can remember.) I dreamt I was sprawled by a pool with a bunch of other people. I was wearing sunglasses and my typical high school fall outfit: jeans, t-shirt, and long-sleeved men’s dress shirt. I got up when I saw an old friend arrive. I then offered to get him a Coke and, when I got to the kitchen, could find no appropriate glassware. Tea cups didn’t seem right, and coffee mugs just wouldn’t work. I also fought with Kari F. (big surprise) and someone said that we were the worst two sisters in the world.

Before you go getting ideas, I slept with the television off last night. Part of the reason for this is Cartoon Network’s horrible decision to air the animated “Dennis the Menace” in the morning.

We were having a going-away dinner for Caryn. Steph had just distributed a memo about different interpretations of Genesis and the Center’s official stand. Then she started telling Jake how to do his job, and Jake asked, “How many times does it say ‘judge not lest ye be judged?”. Caryn explained how her daughter (who is actually entering first grade this fall) volunteered to memorize a large passage from the Bible. At this time, I noticed we were eating outside in a gazebo along a major highway. Within a span of thirty seconds, four fire engines had raced past and turned down a road that was directly across the highway from us. There was a row of trees blocking our view, and it was night, but I could see some faint source of night through the branches. At first it looked just like dawn, but then the explosion hit. Along we were at least a quarter of a mile away, a spark from the blast blew and hit my arm. I had a burn mark the size of a grain of sand. While it did hurt, I also felt a sense of wonderment and specialness, as if I had participated in some great event.

I called Zach’s mom and asked for updated address and phone information. We had a decent chat. She said that she saw me talking on the news about arts education. I told her that when I was working with the preschoolers, I was always quite spry and got compliments on my gymnastic abilities: that was all thanks to her. I mentioned something about how long it had been since we talked, and she suggested that I never mention how much time had passed again. It left a negative tarnish on the whole thing and just would make me feel bad. She was, of course, right.

I only vaguely remember my dreams last night, and even if I could, I’m not sure I would be able to follow them. I had hopelessly complicated dreams about spies because I fell asleep listening to the audio commentary track of Hitchcock‘s The 39 Steps.

Randy and I went to an all-purpose IGA grocery store. We looked at several kinds of flowers, including some hearty ones that could withstand high winds. I sniffed one flower, a mountain variety, and the petal caught on the base of my nostril. The flowers made me sneeze, so we moved on. Then we looked at cookbooks, which were mysteriously kept in chilled freezers near the check-out lines. I found a Dutch or Norwegian cookbook with the title, loosely translated, “50 Ways to Cook Spinach.” There were also frozen dessert items there, including white chocolate brandy and some non-appetizing cheese dessert from the “Wartime Collection: A Celebration of the Food That Kept Us Winning!”

I was being fitted for a beaded silk dress.

An unmarried Hispanic couple came into my office. The female had taken classes before, but the male had never enrolled. He was incredibly frustrating: he kept changing how he spelled his last name. He took two Sprites from my office and opened them both for himself. I could not find the official membership form and he mocked me. To get away from him, I went to some high-dollar Neiman Marcus-type store that was located in the gallery. A woman I faintly recognized as “Board material” was selling diamond rings. She waved to me and I smiled. I found my mom somewhere and she gave me a pastel pink sweater to wear over what I was wearing: a long blue shirt, a pair of paints, and a skirt. I was heavily layered. I left then and ran into Joan Rivers and a gaggle of her types. They complimented me on my unique outfit and I became this instant fake social butterfly. I complimented Joan on her solid gold botanical-themed tiara that looked like it was on upside down. She hugged me and I said, “You’re so kind to me.” She then said she’d be talking to the President of the Board to see if we could “speed things up.” I don’t really know what things she was talking about, but I knew it was going to be the best for me.

I went back into my office and it was way too bright. Howard came into my office and, in an attempt to fake eye contact, I kept my eyes shut and looked up at him. I explained that I didn’t have to see to work. He grabbed a pair of scissors and pretended to cut a massive potholder I had weaved in sixth grade. I saw him through squinted eyes and stopped him, knowing that he was just testing me. The potholder was navy and orange, with a quasi-floral pattern tying the two colors together. The odd part was the way it seemed to grow: the potholder eventually became a full tablecloth size and I told Howard it was for “big dishes” in a little kid’s voice.