Hop On, Hop Off
I awake dishevelled and unshaven in some rural wasteland. How did I get here? How can I get back? Ahead, as far as the eye can see, there’s a waterlogged meadow, with puddles expanding into shallow ponds. I discover I can fly, not soaring into the dawn sky but keeping a constant half-inch above the ground as I float sedately, feet never getting wet.
The sky brightens. I find myself in a large concrete building, offering no shelter from the wind, stark inside with open stairs and ramps. I’d draw it if I were able, but this photo of a ruined seminary will have to do instead. I’m surprised to be greeted by a few fellow-students as I pass through, making me feel I belong, despite the unfamiliar surroundings. I don’t actually recognize any of them, perhaps because I come from the present and they from long ago and in their early twenties, while I’m in my eighth decade.
I’ve arrived just when they’re all going away for the summer—to surf in Cornwall, sail in South Wales, or destinations further afield. They ask about my own plans. I smile back and pass through silently, bound elsewhere, perhaps straight home. I reach a suburban street with a couple of bus stops for opposite destinations.
Here’s one now. I’ll jump on it anyway and ask the conductor. It’s one of those old English double-deckers which leave you at liberty to leap on or off, even when it’s not stationary. It has a pole you can cling to.
I worry briefly whether I’ve got loose change for the fare. All I find in my pocket is a bunch of chocolate coins of different denominations, not in foil but bare. They are firm and cool, don’t melt in your hand. Where’s the conductor? He must be upstairs.
A scattering of passengers sees me get on. I feel their silent welcome, but the upholstery is badly worn and not quite clean, being sprinkled with small splinters of rotten wood. Shall I sit on this sideways bench near the back?
At this point I hesitate and wake up, still fresh from a pleasant ride through my yesterdays, eager to rehearse the details mentally till it’s time to get up and copy them out here.
3 thoughts on “Hop on, hop off”
Dear Ian,
This is a very pleasant write-up. Very few can remember their dreams in details.
Thanks for your dream. I’ll listen to it, sort through the fragments, connect the known with the unknown. I’ll take a little ride to a place I could not have gone without your ‘magic carpet.’
Hesse: “Siddhartha said: ‘What could I say to you that would be of value, except that perhaps you seek too much, that as a result of your seeking you cannot find.’
Whenever I’ve had dreams about returning to High School, there’s usually a decisive moment where I’m reminded that I’m not obligated to that world anymore. On the one hand, it comes as a relief (it doesn’t matter that I didn’t study for the test because I’ve already graduated, etc.), but there’s also a sadness about it because, of course, I’m also reminded of how lost it all is to the past.
The moment where your classmates were all headed for their summer trips but you were headed home, strikes me as that kind of moment.
The bus ride at the end seem fraught with symbolism, or better yet, one of those pleasant vignettes that dreams occasionally construct, engineered to tickle a warm complex of emotions.