For the record, it should be noted that the following is the transcript of this morning’s dream.

I’m driving in a newish white Ford van, on a road trip with with my brother.  The van is full of our stuff and a baby that we’re taking care of for some reason.  We park the van in front of a hotel room and we unload our suitcases and go inside to our room.   I wake up in the morning to find that during the night, the baby unloaded a huge turd and smeared it all over the end of the bed, which prompted my brother to pull the white down comforter over the top of the mess and made the smearing even worse.  He’s packing up and preparing to leave.  “Gross!” I say.  “You can’t leave it like this.  You have to at least pull the sheets off so the staff knows to wash them, but you really should wash them yourself.”  He pulls off the sheets and leaves them in a pile on the floor.  We grab the baby, walk out the door and climb in the van.

We drive to a park on the east side of Portland.  There is a Mexican culture festival happening in the park, which we’re both excited to participate in.  When we arrive, the so-called festival turns out to be one little food cart selling tacos and stuff, with hundreds of people milling around the gigantic grassy park.  No events or anything are happening.  We look around and see a batting cage at the opposite corner of the park.  We are a bit let down by all this, and I tell him, “I’m out of here.  I’ll be back to pick you and the baby up later.”  I drive off in the van, never to see either of them again.

The dream’s location changes, and I’m walking around downtown Portland by myself.  I decide to walk through the basement levels of each of the buildings I come to.  This is an exhausting endeavor, and I wonder to myself if I should maybe change into a different pair of shoes.   I meet a friend along the way, and we walk together into a nice hotel and ride the elevator down to the basement.

The ‘basement’ is a circular room, dimly lit from overhead, with lots of food stalls around the edge that have bright neon signs above each of them.  We are standing in the middle of the room, spinning slowly, taking in the sights, when a couple of rough-looking men approach us and tell us we should leave now.

“We were,” I say.  “We just got a little bit turned around, is all.”  We walk away toward the staircase this time, and the men follow us.  We race up the stairs and out the front doors of the hotel.  When we get there, everyone is staring at us.  It seems they think that my friend is my brother, and that we have abandoned the baby.  The news of this has spread quickly through the city.  We decide to go ‘on the run’ until such time as the general population figures out that we’re innocent. . .much like The Fugitive.  I tell him that we should go to my van, which is parked nearby.  We run to it, climb in, and drive away.

I find myself in the lobby of the San Francisco airport, alone, exploring it.  They have redecorated it with dark red carpeting and slightly lighter red walls, which looks surprisingly good.  I see a couple of drums sitting on the floor unattended, and I walk toward them.  Someone appears from behind a swinging door, grabs the drums, and carries them back through the door to a tiny concourse for private planes.  I follow him through the door to see if he’s alone or with a band.  If he’s with a band, I want to see if they’re people I know.  I take a few steps and stop.  The drummer is catching up to his band members, and I can’t see them well enough to tell if I know them or not, so I turn back and walk through the door into the lobby.

The dream’s location changes to one of the light industrial areas near the south end of the city, and I park the van and step out onto the sidewalk.  I see a small crowd forming, and they are yelling the name (“Dan!  Dan!”) of someone I don’t recognize; a local politician or TV news personality.  I turn away from that crowd and see a musician friend from Portland, Chris R., walking down the street.  He tells me he’s playing with his full band, but that I should be ready, because he may call me up to play guitar with him.  We walk over to the venue and are hanging out backstage with his band, raiding the small food table and drinking bottled water.  I tell him about the band I saw at the airport, and ask him if he knows who they are.  He doesn’t,  naturally, since I don’t even know, and I laugh and say, “Enh, they were probably just a local cover band anyway.”  We all laugh.  Just then, the announcer gets on the PA system and proclaims that it’s time to start the show and that he’d like to introduce Chris, with no response from either Chris or the crowd.  Someone tells the announcer he should say the name “Chris Everson” instead, and he does, then turns back and asks the person, “Why?”

“That’s his rap persona,” the audience member replies, “and that’s who’s performing tonight.”

Chris puts on a bright yellow pullover rain jacket and a curly, black wig that’s bleached blond on the top.  He runs down the aisle through the middle of the audience toward the stage, and I’m right behind him, wearing a pair of yellow bike gloves.  I clap my hands together and yell, “Woooooo!” to get the crowd going, which miraculously seems to work.  I see Justin from MellowBand in the third row, so I join him there.  ChildhoodFriendJason appears in the pew behind me (the seats in the first few rows are dark wooden church pews) and I tell him to come up and join Justin and me in our row.

The dream changes again, and I’m back in Portland.  By this time, I’m definitely on the run.  Even as far away as San Francisco, I don’t feel safe.  I’ve been driving and flying for days without seeing any friendly faces, and I keep hearing news stories about the Portland men who abandoned a baby and then disappeared.  I drive and run all day, and at twilight I walk toward a community baseball field.  I sit near the back of the small bleachers, among a small crowd of other people.  I see a few friends mixed in with the crowd, and I move to sit near them.  They’ve heard the news, of course, and they seem frightened and surprised to see me, but I reassure them by telling them that not one of the allegations is true, and that I’m waiting for the metaphorical storm to pass before I come out of hiding.  My friends are relieved by this, and a couple of them hug me.  “You can’t imagine what these last few days have been like,” I tell them.  “It’s been horrible.  I want nothing more than to go back and make everything right, but I know I can’t do that yet.  I miss my brother, and I hope the baby’s okay.”  I tell them I should probably be on my way, though, because “you never know.”

It’s now ten o’clock in the morning.  I’m driving toward downtown Portland along Interstate 84 (which is called Interstate 205 in the dream) and trying to find a place to park within walking distance of the Coliseum.  I see my friend, the one with whom I’d explored the basement of the hotel downtown, walking nearby and I yell over to him to get his attention.   I tell him that I’ve seen some friends, and that they showed their support for us.  He tells me that he has good news for me; after all this time and hassle, the authorities have realized their mistake, and they’re going to just let us go.  “That’s great!” I tell him.  “Where do you want to go?”  He climbs into the van, shuts the door behind him and rolls the window down.

“How about we go downtown again and look at some more basements?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal!” I say, and I drive off in the direction of one of the bridges that will take us downtown.