First was feeling endangered in my own home here in North Carolina, thinking a burglar was downstairs. Upon poking my head out of my bedroom door to investigate, the power went out, and I woke in that fearful, jarring state that only nightmares can bring you to.
Next, I was in my “new home”, an old apartment in a mysterious, nocturnal version of NOLA’s wonderful Audubon Park. Just out the window was a beautiful swamp, purplish in the nighttime lighting. My roommate kept leaving the windows cracked, which left me feeling vulnerable to intruders yet again. As I worked anxiously to close and lock the old, warped, wooden windows, my subconscious shifted again.
This time, I was on the Gulf Coast, in the little hamlet of Clermont Harbor, Mississippi. It was a family vacation spot for decades, and was largely wiped off the map after Katrina. I had bought a beautiful, newly-renovated cottage on a square on the waterfront (there are no squares on the Clermont Harbor waterfront, and any building there would have to be “newly renovated”, to say the least). I was trying to convince my parents, who were both still with me courtesy the magic of dreams, that I had made a good decision. It was the nicest little house on the coast, and it was a deal! I could work on my writing and art! I could start a sideline eco-tourism business, putting my marine biology degree to good use! I frantically tried to print photos and documents that my father himself had accumulated, trying to show them what a wonderful place it was.
Not happy dreams, but not altogether sad either. Dreams of memories, filtered through a surge of water and emotion. Appropriate, I suppose.