Not surprisingly, I dreamed. Surprisingly, it was normal. Mundane, even.
I didn’t wander the house. I never saw the lair. No otherworldly creatures stopped by for tea. I was viewing the inside of my own head.
Quickly lucid, I let the dream unfold without guidance. There’s my daughter helping me trim my hair, but she gets carried away and cuts my Afro down to 1/4”. I’m supposed to be afraid, but I know this is really about my personal advancements being kept from my family. But things are progressing to the point where it’s harder to hide. I’m going to have to come out and be me eventually.
A wig-maker comes by. He offers to collect the shorn hair. He can make Afro wigs, he says. If there is enough, he can make dred wigs. There isn’t enough nappy hair wigs made for the demand of black cancer patients. He considers making and giving them away an act of devotion to his god. Awesome. I go to get the shorn hair only to find my father overheard and gathered the hair himself. He is demanding the wig-maker purchase the trimmings from him. This is typical of my father. He’ll place himself between me and the world. If there is a chance of a dollar being made, he’ll do his best to make sure he gets it, and the hell with me. I know better than to argue with him. I’m also done with the bullshit. I snatch the bag of shorn hair from him and hand it over to the wig-maker. Dad complains about lost profit. I say nothing and leave with the wig-maker.
The wig-maker has seen my knitting. He asked me to accompany him to a weaving museum. Said I’ll find things of interest there. In the museum, I find lots of inspiration. There is a caretaker sorting antique beads. I sit down to help her and we start chatting. Well, really, she’s in exposition mode and I’m in listening mode. She realizes I’m actually interested and just overflows in information.
I think I’ll start adding beads to certain knitwork.
And yet, even with all this, I did not walk worlds. I did not travel. This was just a normal dream where I’m facing my own worries and concerns. A mirror.
The alarm clock pulls me away from the museum. Time to start the day.
Good morning.