I took another of my periodic weeks off (literal equipment maintenance, to give the wear and tear on my hands and arms time to heal up) and went to bed.
Well I have played in the garden a little, and done lots of reading, but I also got to sleep. It’s amazing what you remember dreaming when you don’t have to wake up fast.
I have no idea what it might mean, but there was this hobby project going on, see, that involved making crafts of various kinds out of rolls of decorative duct tape. These things exist: you can get duct tape in fancy colors or with little hearts or skulls or whatever, and some catalogs for people with more money than sense feature the likes of wallets made of duct tape. In this dream, a couple of chatchkas made of neon-yellow and fluorescent-pink duct tape rested on a table in a Martha Stewart sort of setting, next to a book or pamphlet with plans for numerous duct tape projects written by someone with the pen-name “Rollfinger.” Roll of duct tape, I guess, get it? I actually had to think about it.
2. On A Roll
In another part of the forest entirely — or town, I suppose — the Cute Engineer and I went out for some sort of short shopping trip and took my hand-built PC tower along with us, on a sort of skateboard thing, which got away and began hurtling down suburban main streets and through intersections all on its own, out of control. I suspect we all feel this way about our computers sometimes. Of course the weather was the sunless, gray dusk that it always is in my dreams (sometimes there’s watercolor twilight overhead, but the sun’s never out.)
3. Is This Open?
I lived in a house with a roommate — not a partner of any kind, just some woman who reminded me of a couple of different friends — and we had just finished a short conversation with someone who came to call on business, think of the guy who sizes things up for routine jobs of work like replacing your furnace or installing new gutters. The massage room in this house was actually outside the main structure, the sort of thing you see when someone encloses a porch, with a separate entrance and no communication with the central heating. In the dream it was the deep part of midwinter when the room was too cold to be usable, so that I’d moved my equipment somewhere inside and left the room stripped to the cement floor and block walls. The contractor wanted to look at it, then pointed to the ornamental door I’d had installed — with a classy full glass center slightly adorned with leading and colors at the borders — and said “Is this open?” I said it was, thinking he meant “unlocked,” but what he did was crash right through the glass, apparently thinking it was an aperture. I thought of the four hundred or so dollars I’d paid for it and simply began to weep inconsolably, assuming that since I’d told him it was open, I wouldn’t have a hope of getting paid for the damage.
Funnily enough I would love a door like that, almost anywhere in my house, though as an entry door I would bar it because I don’t want this region’s 1001 illegal solicitors and political canvassers to know I’m in here. Or someone to crash right through it.