Because fuck you I will post about my dreams.
I have had several dreams about my time in San Antonio.
At least, I think they were dreams. Much of my time in that city was spent in what was, in retrospect, some sort of drawn-out breakdown, and due to being fairly isolated there, I have no one to corroborate my stories and so I have very few concrete memories that I know actually happened. I assume this particular instance was a dream, as I was extremely shy and introverted and this sort of behavior was entirely unlike me.
San Antonio’s highway system is built like a doughnut—the small, 410 loop in the middle, and the much larger 1604 loop on the outside. They are criss-crossed by a number of streets, and I-10 comes in from the east and abruptly turns at a right angle more or less in the middle of the city to head north.
The bulk of the city is within the 410 loop, with most of the more suburby-type areas encased in 1604. Past the outer loop, there’s a lot of developing areas, some small clusters of homes, and a whole lot of farmland and pretty scenery. Good place to dump a body, I always thought.
In this dream, it was that over-saturated purple of dream nighttimes. I was driving around aimlessly, which was something I did on a fairly regular basis because gas was much cheaper then. But I drove beyond the 1604 loop and got a bit lost.
This was not something I did, as a rule. Having no friends or contacts in the city meant that I couldn’t call anyone but a tow truck for help, and this was before the prevalence of smart phones, so I had no access to anything like a GPS. I might venture a short ways out from the outer loop on a decent-sized road, as I had a fairly good natural sense of direction, but only in the daytime when I could use the sun’s position to figure out where I was going. I was not well-versed in navigating by stars, having grown up in a city where they’re not always visible.
I had gotten myself turned around one too many times to keep it straight in my head, and was driving around in an undeveloped area full of trees and fields. I hadn’t seen any building in a long while, and was beginning to worry that I would run out of gas. I stopped when I saw a modern-looking house alight with life and people despite the fact that it was in the wee hours of the morning, with several cars parked out front, and a number of folk standing around chatting. It was not in my nature to approach people, but they all seemed fairly mellow and in a good mood, and I desperately needed to know how to get home.
I waved to the people standing outside with their beer and cigarettes, and they all smiled and said hello, then returned to their conversation. I trudged forward and went inside, where I could see a large picnic-table of old, beautiful wood in an airy and well-lit dining area through the huge windows facing the driveway and front yard. The man who was hosting looked up and smiled when he saw me, beckoning me to take a seat in one of the comfy chairs scattered about the living area, and offered me a drink. I shook my head; he didn’t push it. Everyone inside (it was between four and ten people) was dressed in fine clothes, drinking wine, and discussing the beautiful paintings and sculptures throughout the house. No one asked my name, or gave theirs, and I remained silent. I gathered from listening that this was an after-party of sorts, a post-celebration in honor of the host’s wife, who had just had a gallery opening. The artwork was hers. The host was very proud of her, and had a genial, intelligent manner* that made me feel quite comfortable. This was no easy feat, as my life at that point was marked by constant unease and anxiety. I listened to them discuss the artwork and admired it myself until the sky began to streak pink and orange. The other guests started to say their goodbyes, and I stood up to leave as well, turning to the host in hope that he would be kind enough to help me. I hadn’t even opened my mouth when he patted me on the shoulder.
“Go down this road, and then turn left. You’ll drive for a while, but you’ll hit the main road soon enough.” He smiled at me. “It’s the same to come back. Now you can find us again.” I climbed into my car and left.
Months later, I dreamt again. Overcome by loneliness in the wee hours of the morning, I set off and once more found the lonely house full of light and celebration. This time there were no cigarette-smoking stragglers outside. The large picnic-table had been relocated to the driveway, and surrounded by gentle lights and flowers. A smaller crowd, about seven people, were seated at it, talking and laughing. I recognized the host, again, and surmised that the plain-looking but lively and happy woman to his right was his wife. They were all in slightly odd garb; influenced by historical periods, but not full-on outlandish costumes. The host rejoiced to see me again, and had me sit at the remaining seat. I was again offered something to drink, and I again declined with a silent shake of my head.
This time, they were celebrating a play in which they had all had a part. They laughed uproariously at silly things that had gone wrong, and things that had wound up going bizarrely right. I couldn’t get a sense of what the play was about, but I smiled and enjoyed the stories nonetheless. Again, no one asked my name, and I said nothing. At the creeping pink of dawn the guests again departed, myself with them.
Last night, I dreamt that I was once more looking for this house. I drove through field after field, past acres of trees, but I couldn’t find it. I kept waking up, thinking “I have to go back and find it,” only to return to sleep and once more remain lost.
I awoke for good when my bedroom door that leads to the outside patio flew open. There was no one outside. No one had pushed it, and it can be difficult to budge even when unlocked (especially in humid weather, when the wood and doorframe swell).
I hope to find it again.
*Years later I was to be struck with a sense of deja vu (I loathe the term, but it’s all that fits) upon meeting my screenwriting professor at UST. I couldn’t place it then, but I can now—while his appearance is only slightly similar, his demeanor is exactly the same as the host of these dream parties.
