Problem is, once I’m fully awake, I’ve lost my sense of distinction.
Last night, a dream of parallel streets in sight of each other; the first, my choice, requires a sharp left turn as close as one would want to the second, busier street beyond. The streets are separated only by a narrow, levelled lot — a building lot not yet re-developed — sandwiched by flat, cracked sidewalks.
Yet, down the street, almost immediately (if the dream is to be trusted), I’m surrounded by two- and three-storey elegant red brick homes, all porches and gables, built early in the 20th century, amid lush green lawns, matured bushes and flowery shrubs. Tall oaks, elms and maple trees shade. (pulling out one of those drilled cores the arborists use for counting rings, each tree would date at least as old as the houses, or older)
Driving along, I’m stopped by a giant hole in the road; the work crew captain guides me along a tiny pathway to the right of the hole. Deep within I see, as I slide gently down the side, the dirt is loose, friable, richly coloured and grained like mahogany. The crew captain — yellow-hatted, orange-vested, steel-toed — offers his hand to pull me up
“How wonderful,” I think.