tea berry-blue (teaberryblue) wrote,
tea berry-blue
teaberryblue

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Weirdest. Dream. Ever.

I had a dream last night, that was very telling and certainly inspired by many of my feelings about moving out of the city.

Before I describe the dream to you, there is one detail that I need to explain:

Ribollita is an Italian soup. Its name literally means “reboiled,” and it’s pretty much: leftover soup. But the idea is that you take leftover minestrone soup and boil the crap out of it so that the veggies get really mushy, and then you pour it over day-old bread.

Here is Giada DeLaurentiis’ recipe for it, if anyone is curious.

You will understand when I describe the dream why this is so important.

Most of you know that I frequently dream stories that i am not in, stories that are like I’m viewing a movie. For example, two nights ago I had a dream about a cartoon television show that was like a cross between Venture Bros. and [info]beatonna’s comics. It starred a time-traveling Roman gladiator who was a sort of Brock Samson-esque character who was fighting in the Napoleonic Wars. There was a scene where he pumped his fist at the heavens and shouted “Nooooo!” So that’s what my dreams are usually like.

But in this dream, it was about me.

I was in my new apartment in Queens, unpacking some stuff, alone. It was the evening.

The phone rang.

Another thing you have to know to truly appreciate this dream is that I have not had a landline since I lived in Boston in 2005, and before Boston, I hadn’t had a landline since 2001. When I called Time Warner Cable to get my service switched to the new address, they told me that my bill would actually be cheaper if I added a landline service. Like, by $13 a month. So I added a landline. I don’t even have a phone to plug in, but I will have a line.

Now, in the dream, I was answering my landline.

It was my godmother, who lives in Colorado.

“Are you home?” she asked. It was a weird question, because she called my landline.

“Yes,” I answered.

“It’s happened,” she said.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“The Ribollita,” she said. “And they say there are fumes heading toward Queen.”

Now, she wasn’t talking about soup. And in my dream, I knew what she was talking about, because the word didn’t mean soup. It meant something that filled my heart with terror.

Again, I have to stop and explain something. In New York City, there is a section of the island of Manhattan where the bedrock is too far below the surface to build skyscrapers– if you’ve ever been to Manhattan, you would know that this is the downtown section between the Financial District and Midtown, where skyscrapers are possible.

In my dream, the Ribollita was a term for a hypothetical geological phenomenon whereby the massive construction in the upper and very lower portion of Manhattan would somehow cause the deeper bedrock in that middle section to buckle and send a massive seismic wave through the island.

I’m not sure how I would have not realized this was going on, or felt any kind of effect from it just across the river, but there you have it. And why in my dream, this phenomenon was named for a kind of soup is beyond me.

So, I gathered up my computer and a few things to take with me, and went outside to wait– and of course to see the effects. A few blocks away from where I am going to live, you can see the whole city skyline, so I went over there, and ran into someone– a woman I know, but I don’t remember who, it might not be someone I actually know in real life– and scanned the skyline. Of course, there were lots of weird spatial anomalies thanks to it being a dream, and when I got to the Empire State Building, it was standing at such an extreme angle that the spire of it was hanging over my head, and bricks were falling from it– yes, I know how completely implausible it is for there to be bricks falling from the ESB, but there you have it.

The river was alight with boats of people trying to escape Manhattan.

And then a brick flew from the other direction, over my head. I turned around, and there was a little boy standing there. I scolded him for throwing a brick.

“They’re angry at us,” he told me.

“Who is?” I asked.

“They are. They did this, because they’re angry.”

I asked again, who.

“I’ll show you,” he said. “Come with me.” And he started walking into a subway tunnel– of course, you should also know that in the area I’m moving to, the nearest subways are overhead, not underground.

But that’s when my alarm rang and I had to go to work.

I still can’t get over the idea that I dreamed of a disaster named after a soup.

Mirrored from Antagonia.net.

Tags: dreams, everyday life, writing
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