It's at a fancy restaurant, kay?

Even my subconscious finds ways to see humor and irony in things. It creates these situations for itself, but in a way, there is a beauty inside the science of dreaming.

S pulls me into the car, blindfolded. It is cold out and I require a blanket, curled up inthe front seat, waiting for the engine to warm up. It seems early. Dark still. Perhaps not even morning.

I often have dreams where I am only expeeriencing them via sound, touch, and taste. Many of my dreams are blind and visionless, and I have dreamed in this way for my entire life. Nothing seems lacking, and it isn't necessarily a fearful feeling. It is just a different perception. And if dreams are only one thing, they are a combustion of perception.

But this dream opens up suddenly, no longer a blind experience. A vast field is to my right, outside my window. It's chilly, late fall, few leaves left on the trees. A few boys fumble with traditional falconing equiptment: a tangle of leather jessies and a flurry of tiercels, peregrines, and goshawks. The austringers wave as we pass. I turn to S and exclaim how we must be passing near King Richard's Faire, but S shakes his head and says that we're nowhere near there. Disappointed, I watch the falconers communicate with their birds. They disappear into the horizon, and the ride seems to go on forever.

Eventually we pull into a parkinglot with a traditional amusement park gate, and my heart flutters once again. We really ARE at King Richard's Faire!

We get out and I bubble all the way to the front gate. S tells me that we have to go back, though, because I have to work in an hour. So we get back into the car and drive all the way home. I arrive at work upset, and enter a store in a state of complete disarray: animals scurrying about, products and items scattered as if an earthquake ravaged the area. My boss calls and tells me that the floor is built on some kind of wetlands, and suddenly I'm standing on Jell-O. Wobbling across the store, I decide to close early. I send everyone home and close down the registers, and get back home by noon. S looks at me confused, and I tell him, "we should have stayed at the faire after all" with an exaggerated tone, as if I truly saw the situation as ironic. S reacts as if he's hurt by this.

Outside, a hawk screeches and swoops.

-runt