What dreams may come...

On Jan. 18, 2010, I had a dream...

...Not a dream like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had, even though it arrived in my mind the night of his holiday. My dream will not lead civil rights movements; it likely won't affect or impress many--if any. But it's managed to occupy my mind for these few days and is worth recording in my opinion [and those of a few encouraging others], so here I go:

Disclaimer: Several-days removal will likely affect memory of the entire cerebral film, so I'm excusing myself from the obligation of including every detail.

OK, for real now, here I go:

I'm in Palestine, and I'm alone--and apparently lost. I see shari3 il Khala, as if I'm gliding past and through it, but I never touch the gravel. Perhaps I'm in a car, looking out the window; perhaps I'm floating. Panning out, I now realize that I'm moving within the confines of a yellow VW Bug that looks a little different than those available at the car lots, but I know--in my dream's mind--that it is this car of this color in this place.

Next, I'm stopped at a "checkpoint" (??), which consists of a yield-area on a sideroad exiting Tysons Corner mall and leading to the on-ramp to 495 S. I've yielded to a man of small stature and small mind, who is holding a clipboard and mumbling something or other--nothing audible. Without instruction but by instinct, I offer him a paper-copy of my passport picture...or was it the copy of my mom's passport? Both were folded up and sitting in the console of my yellow VW. It doesn't matter--he accepted it and waved me off to continue. As soon as I start to climb the ramp, I'm transported elsewhere...

Elsewhere, in this dream, is the Armenian quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem (I know it because I recognize the shops and the cafe that I've escaped to for a cold drink or ice cream during a hot day of shopping--the same cafe at which, in 2007, the Chobar lady shared her time and stories over 3aseer). In that corner of the quarter--in my dream--is a small amphitheater-like space that is half inside and half out. It is made of wood (must be olive) and rock; fashionable greenery peeking out of select corners and crevices; chairs, bleachers, and a stage; a crowd of internationals and a handful of young Palestinians gather to watch a show. It's all so "Def Poetry Jam"-esque [aside: the vision is so vivid, reminiscent of the colors and auras depicted in "What Dreams May Come"; I want to touch everything; my eyes gulp the scene in as if their existence depends on it; it's awesome and I'm amazed and aware of this even in the dream.]

I see him in profile, prancing across the bleachers from outside to in. Xxx? He comes at me and looks at me as if I had been his girlfriend for all these years--but I knew nothing of it. He tells me that he's arranged for me to discuss my life and share stories with the audience that has gathered here--but I'm unprepared. He escorts me to the top bleachers, in the back, where we can talk and be alone, except there is a guy sitting right to his right. I look at the stage; no one is performing yet. I lean over and whisper something in his left ear and touch his rook with the tip of my tongue...

This propels him into an action that I'm going to spare the readers and leave in the nooks of my dream's memories. I will write that my eyes widened out of shock, flattery, disgust, and the comedy of the situation. The guy right on his right seems clueless or unaffected somehow, which causes me even more amazement.

Suddenly, I'm on deck--either preparing to go on stage or just standing there to view the crowd from this perspective. And then, I see Jermaine Dupri holding Janet Jackson's right hand with his left, and  leading her to the backstage area. She is laughing about something; and from behind me a voice whispers something about how stylishly the couple is dressed.

IL NIHAYA