I was in New York City going to a Twitter conference. It was pouring and I was walking the city streets lost. It was the last day of the conference and I was up on 132nd street and had to get down to the lower East side of Manhattan.
Knowing that nobody can get anywhere in NYC in the pouring rain, unless they walk or take the subway,? I started walking, after three years in the city I had developed Enochlophobia and no longer had the ability? to immerse myself in the chaos of? crowds and congested transportation.
I approached a man for help as I rolled my luggage behind me. He was a tall Afro-American, in his fifties, and his name was George. We instantly took to each other and we walked together for a while in the wind and rain hunting for gargoyles on the beautiful old buildings. I offered him some chicken breasts that I had in my bag so that he could take them? home to his family.
George gave me ideas on how I could get to the airport and we talked about Twitter. He had a Twitter account but he never used it, which I told him is what everybody says to me. I told him that I am always searching for Twitter people that I have met face to face because it can get lonely out there in the Twitter world.
Then I saw my ex boyfriend, Brett, walking toward me in the rain, holding hands with a little boy. He was wearing Khaki shorts, aviator sunglasses, a collared plaid short sleeve shirt with a loosened tie and a Burberry raincoat. His clothes were blowing open in the wind.
I started walking backward looking up at him and calling his name. He didn’t see me at first but finally looked down in amusement. He said hello and told me that he was not Brett. After I explained to him what I was trying to do he directed me to the 42nd street subway which he said would be a straight shot down to my destination. As he walked away, I yelled to him through the wind, “And don’t think I didn’t recognize who you really are.” It was Jim Carey who happens to look a lot like Brett. He turned and smiled and waved.
I decided to walk all the way to the East Village and had to quickly pass a marching Irish Band before I got stuck marching with the bagpipers. I was loving New York City and so glad to be back. Adventure was lurking at every step. I thought that if I couldn’t get back for a few days, then just staying and exploring the city could be a wonderful thing.
Next I entered a subway terminal and descended? the stairs. The long stairwell was pitch black. At the bottom there was a desk with two people standing behind it and long lines of wet New Yorkers. Miraculously it was a check in counter for departing flights. I realized that I had left all of my bags with George and I did not have my E-ticket. I was annoyed but at the same time loving the feeling of freedom of carrying nothing and having nothing. I was also happy that George had my information so that he would not be lost to me forever.
The small redheaded woman sitting behind the desk was a dancer, and crazy. She told me that there was nothing that she could do for me. I stood there feeling as if I was in one of my favorite movies, “After Hours,” and wondered how I was ever going to get home. Her boyfriend, a heroine addict, came down the stairs and flopped himself on a couch. He talked about their wonderful, crazy days filled with sex and heroine. I wrote her a note saying that if she didn’t help me I would report her for heroine abuse.
END OF DREAM (See if you can find the correlations in the dream to my previously written posts. Who needs Freud when one has a blog?)