I jotted notes about the following dream one night several weeks ago; maybe it was months. At any rate, here’s another of my dreams, recorded here for posterity, or the mental health training program. I wrote this post about the same time, but have held it in abeyance until now because…I don’t know, just because.
We were driving north, approaching Loop 635 in east Dallas, somewhere around Abrams Road. Ahead of us, the traffic was extremely heavy. Traffic in the right lane, our lane, appeared to be veering left around something in the road as it approached the intersection with the feeder road. As we neared the spot where traffic creeped to the left, I saw the remnants of a brick wall blocking the roadway. I tried to step on the brakes, but I could not get my foot to push on the pedal; it was as if my foot was asleep and could not move. I veered to the right, off the road and around the bricks, and heard the sound of breaking bricks crunching under the tires.
A woman I know well was in the seat beside me. As we crossed over the freeway, she pointed to a complex of buildings on the left and asked me to pull in. I told her this was not the Mexican market to which we’d been headed, and she said “Let’s just stop here to take a look; it’ll be just a few minutes.”
After we parked, we walked down a series of very steep stairs. Landings, where the stairs headed in the opposite direction, were halfway between floors. A few landings down, there were people in line, all going down. We passed them by on the right and at the bottom saw a ticket counter with heavy bars on the window. A man behind the counter was wearing a plaid vest and a black cap with a green translucent plastic bill.
My friend stepped to the counter, in front of the line, and spoke to the man. “I’m Dax Textil, that’s D-A-X AND T-E-X-T-I-L, and I used to work on this line. I’d like to take a look.” He motioned her to step through the turnstile. I was utterly confused but I followed her.
On the other side of the turnstile, there were two platforms, the one on the left a wide platform I’ve seen in Amtrak stations. The one on the right was smaller, a tighter platform with a much narrower set of tracks beside it, like those in subway stations.
She stopped a few feet in and surveyed the scene. I asked her, “What is going on? What was that all about?” She smiled at me and said, “I just wanted to see what was here.”
Still confused, I asked about the name: “Who’s Dax Textil?”
She took my hand and squeezed it. “Clever, isn’t it? I got it off one of your CDs,” she said, “she was listed as the sound engineer on one of your recordings.”
The next thing I remember, we were somewhere else in the station, just inside the French doors at the top of a very wide set of stairs. Beyond the doors was a “great room” where people milled about waiting for trains; it was like Union Station in Chicago, but not as ornate. Inside, it was more like a small waiting room.
My friend took a small child, who was standing by his mother’s side, by the hand and walked out the doors, down the steps, and into the center of the huge hall, beneath the train departure signs. The mother seemed alarmed, but did not grab the child; instead, she just followed at a distance of about twenty feet. Other people followed along with her. My friend let go of the child’s hand, but he did not walk away; he motioned for his mother to come to him, and she did. So did the others who had been with her. And then, “Dax” took another child by the hand and said “There’s a greengrocer at the end of the city line; that’s where you can get your candy.” She let go of his hand and turned to me.
I spoke first. “Are you going with me to the Mexican market?”
She looked puzzled. “Can’t we just go to the greengrocer downtown?”
“I wasn’t even aware this station existed and I don’t know where these trains go. We’re expected at the Mexican market.”
And that’s where the dream ended. I think.