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Dream: writing retreat
Sep. 7th, 2014 09:04 amI went to a retreat for writers at a mountain resort. It lasted several days. The accommodations were not luxurious. The buildings seemed to have been a scout camp at one time. They were barn-like, with that characteristic red paint. It was late summer and the weather was warm and overcast. The grounds were grassy and had not been mown that year. Everything was damp and covered with dew.
Some 10 people were there. Some I know in real life, like my high school friends Lynn Langlois and possibly Cindy Richardson (Gagnier). Others I had never met before. One seemed to be Nick, William Hurt's character from The Big Chill. In the dream his name was Albert and he was a cartoonist. The weekend had a reunion feeling to it. In the dream the people were all professional writers, but none of my real-life writing colleagues were there. One evening I phoned my mother to tell her who was there and what we were doing.
I flirted and slept around over the course of the few days. The last night I spent with Albert. We played and slept in my room. It was tucked into an alcove in the side of a barn, but was dry and warm. He was outgoing and had a wicked sense of humour, and it was refreshing to spend time with him.
The next morning we met in a classroom, where we turned the desks to face each other in a rough circle. I remember Lynn most vividly from this scene, but she was inattentive and aloof. Later we had breakfast, then the group started to break up.
Albert and I had entered weekend romance mode. I was proud because his wittiness made him one of the most popular people at the retreat. I invited him home with me.
He rode in my sports car. I drove through a network of freeways reminiscent of the ones around Albany, cut through scenic, forested landscape. I lived with my parents and anticipated having to tell my mother more about the retreat when we arrived.
By this time I had started to forget who was at the retreat. As we arrived at the house, I couldn't remember the name of my companion, and I worried about how to introduce him to my parents. I seem to have decided at this time that his name was Albert. I started talking to Mom in my head, as if we were on the phone, not in person. I told her, "Cindy Richardson was there -- or maybe it was Lynn Langlois."
Albert and I arrived in the kitchen of a farmhouse where I lived with my parents (this seems like a reference to the main character in the novel I'm writing). They were welcoming toward Albert, though not in the effusive way that sometimes used to embarrass me. Mom was about three feet tall and had a puckish, sprightly demeanour completely unlike her in real life. She wore eye shadow in sea green shades, and it was beautiful with her silver hair (in life Mom only ever wore lipstick). Dad was about four feet tall, a shadowy figure who receded from view. Mom led us outside, where she leapt around the garden pointing at things, as with a magic wand.
Some 10 people were there. Some I know in real life, like my high school friends Lynn Langlois and possibly Cindy Richardson (Gagnier). Others I had never met before. One seemed to be Nick, William Hurt's character from The Big Chill. In the dream his name was Albert and he was a cartoonist. The weekend had a reunion feeling to it. In the dream the people were all professional writers, but none of my real-life writing colleagues were there. One evening I phoned my mother to tell her who was there and what we were doing.
I flirted and slept around over the course of the few days. The last night I spent with Albert. We played and slept in my room. It was tucked into an alcove in the side of a barn, but was dry and warm. He was outgoing and had a wicked sense of humour, and it was refreshing to spend time with him.
The next morning we met in a classroom, where we turned the desks to face each other in a rough circle. I remember Lynn most vividly from this scene, but she was inattentive and aloof. Later we had breakfast, then the group started to break up.
Albert and I had entered weekend romance mode. I was proud because his wittiness made him one of the most popular people at the retreat. I invited him home with me.
He rode in my sports car. I drove through a network of freeways reminiscent of the ones around Albany, cut through scenic, forested landscape. I lived with my parents and anticipated having to tell my mother more about the retreat when we arrived.
By this time I had started to forget who was at the retreat. As we arrived at the house, I couldn't remember the name of my companion, and I worried about how to introduce him to my parents. I seem to have decided at this time that his name was Albert. I started talking to Mom in my head, as if we were on the phone, not in person. I told her, "Cindy Richardson was there -- or maybe it was Lynn Langlois."
Albert and I arrived in the kitchen of a farmhouse where I lived with my parents (this seems like a reference to the main character in the novel I'm writing). They were welcoming toward Albert, though not in the effusive way that sometimes used to embarrass me. Mom was about three feet tall and had a puckish, sprightly demeanour completely unlike her in real life. She wore eye shadow in sea green shades, and it was beautiful with her silver hair (in life Mom only ever wore lipstick). Dad was about four feet tall, a shadowy figure who receded from view. Mom led us outside, where she leapt around the garden pointing at things, as with a magic wand.
