(A deal's a deal. If a Book & Bike club buys your town, accept it.)
Last night's dream. This kind of outlaw club with a fleet of grey Harley-Davidson Servicycles (the 3-wheelers they used to make to do everything from sell ice cream, to police utility work--tank shift and a box between the rear two wheels) bought a town in Arizona. So they owned it. But the town wouldn't recognize the sale. In my dream, the sale was legal. The only spokesperson for Road Iron was a slim woman with short hair and tattoos, wearing a t-shirt and jeans and high boots that look like horsey-type boots that are usually worn with jodphurs. She was exasperated with the town.
That's about it. No rhyme, no reason. A book & bike club bought a town, and a specific one at that. Prescott exists. I looked it up and it's a town in the middle of Arizona of about 34,000 people. I've never been there, never even heard of it, to my conscious knowledge.
One detail, as the dream fades, is that the club didn't ride these 3-wheeler utility things, they rode choppers like outlaw clubs do. The fleet of Servicycles were parked somewhere near or in Prescott. Waiting to deliver books, maybe. There was noise, chopper sounds, revving, hollering. The lady seemed to be the leader, perturbed that the town didn't recognize the sale. Hey, wouldn't you?
Then I woke up. Piecing it all together, maybe the takeover of Hollister (CA) in 1947 by bikers was the neural input to start this thing; I've read about it lately, in more than one book. The lady looked like someone who used to have a gallery in Paola. But the rest of it is a mystery. Some cultures believe dreams are our real life, and this daily thing we do is but a dream. Somehow, the walls of the corridor we travel waver and become transparent enough to see into a parallel world. And that's a Pandora's box of musings and meanderings.
But when I was twelve I had recurring dreams. The same dream for three or four nights. It involved a reflective pool at dusk with monks moving silently around it, in robes with hoods that hid their faces in shadow. And trees outside of that, tall slim trees like columnar evergreens. There was nothing scary about this, to my twelve-year-old mind, but it was peaceful. It turns out a great-uncle died during that period, an artist, Jack Gage Stark, and the scene turned out to be in Santa Barbara--I saw it in a book years later. Jack lived in Santa Barbara, and was associated with that scene. But that's another story, another dreamscape. Kind of a remote viewing, if you will. Perhaps Prescott will reveal itself someday.