Last night I had a recurring dream that I was back at my parent's house. That is of the house I grew up in and haven't lived for over 15 years. I don't know why but every so often I'll have dreams about being back in that house, a 60s suburban ranch. They range anywhere from me surprising the new occupants with my gay arrival to finding new rooms I never knew we had.
This dream was a little different.
I pulled around the corner of my street and saw my house being painted a hideous green, sort of like patina copper color. Yet the painters weren't covering the whole house just certain sections. They were slathering the paint in stripes around the windows and door jambs, in zigzags around certain sections of the fascia and applied in whole to the gutters. "What in hell is this? This looks like white trash central."
Mrs. Dow, a neighbor, approached me. "What's the matter with your parents? These last few years they've really neglected that house. It's become the eyesore of the neighborhood?"
I agreed. The house looked more like something out of Pee-Wee's Playhouse than that of a middle class suburban neighborhood. Just as I thought that, one of the gutters began to loosen. My father, pushing a wheel barrell of manure, looked up as the gutter teetered and swayed in the breeze yet he didn't let it stop him from pushing a heap of shit. It didn't surprise him in the least as he ignored the incident as 'just another one of those things'.
I walked over the side, near the old Greek family that used to cook extremely odiferous concoctions on Sundays. They're oven exhaust was near my bedroom window and as I grew older I found I had developed a particularly keen ability to sniff out boiled octopus and lamb brains. Nonetheless, in my dream, as I walked around to the side of the house that was accustomed to fare from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, I saw painters on ladders covering every inch of the house in a greenish pukey bile color. They were covering over the stripes of patina green with what looked like the inside color of a clam's bowels or perhaps from that of something you ate (perhaps from the Greek's next door) that was later regurgitated.
When I was about 15 or 16 years old, I moved from one of the three bedrooms upstairs into the basement. Mind you the basement was furnished with heat and was quite spacious and comfortable. Yet, in my dream, when I walked in, it was no longer a clean finished basement. It was a basement with wet dirty floors, cob webs, half open cans of paint with the colors smeared around the edges gluing the lid shut, bags of dirt that were used to collect the contents from an attempted cleaning spree but were left behind and a motley crew of tools, old toys and notebooks.
To be continued...