I Am A Dreamer. I'm This Far Away.

I’ve had some pretty bizarre dreams of late. I’m going to share one with you, but first, an example of what constitutes reality.

I step into the elevator at work today, and I hear a kind of digital ringing, like a telephone. I look around for a cell phone on the ground, and find nothing. The ringing continues as the elevator descends. I check the emergency button and see that it has not been pushed. I’m about to chalk it all up to my imagination when the ringing stops and a voice asks me “Can I speak to Sandra?”

I’m startled. The silence in a lift is almost sacred to me. It’s like a dream, when you know you’re dreaming and you just can’t bring yourself to play along with the charade anymore, and you refuse to speak, waiting instead for the reverie to pass. I don't want to answer her. I hate speaking in elevators, and I hate speaking to elevators even more. But I know she'll keep asking. So I tell her “This is an elevator.”

“What?”

Good Lord, I think, how does this even happen? “I think you’ve got the wrong number,” I say as I look at the carpet.

“What?”

“This is an elevator,” I respond. How do you even dial an elevator?

The doors open, and visitors to the museum enter.

“What?” She is a bit louder now.

“This is an elevator,” I say again. The others in the elevator look confused.

“This isn’t a person’s home,” the voice asks.

“No, this is an elevator.” I’m having to raise my voice, which is making me extremely uncomfortable.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She hangs up.

I look at the tourists standing around me and smile as I press the button for the Third Floor.

And... scene.

So, that’s my waking world. Now, I’m going to share a recent dream I had. It starts out in a bar, like the kind of bar you see in old war movies. It’s dark, and green, and there are soldiers sitting around drinking beer. There is nothing celebratory. The mood is somber. These men have been in the shit, and are going back. I look around, and I see that there is no bartender in this small establishment. I’m about to go behind the bar to make myself a drink, when suddenly Donald Rumsfeld and Paul Wolfowitz come in. Their gray suits stand out in the green bar. Rumsfeld looks around and finally asks “who wants margaritas?” He says it like he’s calling children down on Christmas morning to open presents. No one responds. The soldiers keep drinking their beer, and I sit at the bar, watching.

“Well, we’re going to have margaritas, by gum,” Rumsfeld continues. He goes behind the bar and starts pulling out ice, and a blender, and other margarita accouterments, including Tequila. Rummy busies himself with the Margaritas, leaving Mr. Wolfowitz to his own devices.

The soldiers continue drinking their beer, and Paul looks around. I say to him “hey, wanna do some shots?” I pick up the bottle of José and pour two shots. He comes over, we clink glasses, shoot, and then eat some of the limes that Rumsfeld is slicing for his margaritas.

We keep on doing shots, and then Paul starts to look green. I take the opportunity to shove a lime in his mouth and spin him around to face Rumsfeld. He pukes all over the Secretary of Defense and stumbles into the wall. The room explodes with laughter, and I’m suddenly left thinking that my thesis is supposed about what just happened and the soldiers’ response to it. And that it is due in three days.

That’s it. Any ideas?