Nightmares & Nanotraumas



I had an interesting nightmare a couple of nights ago--a peculiar intersection of two nanotraumas of my recent life. One of these events was the first door ding on my new (to me) 2000 Chevrolet Corvette; the other involved moving two cubic yards of river rock from the driveway to the backyard for a "Honey-Do" project.



I dreamed that I had returned to Petaluma, People's Republic of California (from which my family and I only recently escaped). I drove into downtown, into an "unimproved parking lot." (This is bureaucratese for a dirt lot that no one has figured out to build anything on yet.) If you know downtown Petaluma as it was several years ago, you know the lot I mean. I park my shiny red Corvette in the corner where the ground level is a bit lower than the rest, and duck into a nearby convenience store for a Coke. When I return, where's my Corvette?



The locals are standing around grinning, and I am becoming increasingly disturbed by this. Have they stolen my car? It's nowhere to be found. Suddenly, I realize that the depression in the corner is now level with the rest of the lot. It's been filled up with this cursed river rock! Under this enormous pile, my Corvette now rests.



Alas, another two cubic yards of river rock is about to be ordered, with disturbing consequences for arms, shoulders, neck--and probably future dreams.