Dream Journal #13
01/27/2016 07:39 p.m.
I'm driving on highway 36, or maybe it's 88. The weather is rainy. Or snowy. Or icy. I'm having a difficult time driving and can't seem to control my car. But it's more than the slick pavement; I just can't seem to focus. Then I spin out and crash. What will my wife think? I just smashed her car. But it's right outside a shopping mall, and body shop mechanics--who just happen to be there--immediately begin assessing the damage. But it's not my wife's car after all, it's my truck. I've completely smashed the front end, as well as the entire left side, with some additional damage to the tail end. The driver's door is hanging open, nearly torn off. The chief repair guy points at the built-in refrigerator on the side of the truck, just beneath and behind the driver's seat, and says, "We won't be able to fix the refrigerator." I tell him I can live without it, but silently I regret the loss. While they continue to assess the damage, I somehow manage to go home, hop in my wife's car and return to the mall to make final arrangements for repairing the truck. Again, driving is very difficult but I arrive unscathed and park the car. I can see my truck being towed away but suddenly realise that I have no idea about where it's being towed or who these repair guys really are. So I need to quickly get back to the car and follow them. But now I can't find the car. It's neither in the front lot nor the rear. So I run into the mall's interior and look for the car inside. While I'm frantically searching, a man approaches me. He's gay, has very large hands, and he wants hold me. I seem to remember being in a car with him earlier, or maybe it was someone very similar. Maybe it was a different dream. He tries to put his arms around me but I fend him off as gracefully as I can without hurting his feelings and continue running through the mall, frantic about losing my wife's car, wondering where it is that my truck has been towed. I enter a bakery that sits in the middle of the mall. Its entire front wall is made of glass. All the baked goods look and smell delicious. The man at the counter, a tall Italian-looking man with a dark moustache, dressed in white with a chef's hat, looks right into my eyes and greets me warmly. It's clear that he's been waiting for me to arrive.