Creative Writing or Aikido? Maybe Alan Alda knows.

I wish I'd scribed this dream when I had it. The memory is a little fuzzy now.

I dreamt I was in a classroom, only not the sort of course I would have signed up for. It did seem to be back in my university days.

As is typical for my classroom-type dreams, the course was well into the semester, and that was the first time I had decided to attend.

The curious thing is that my Aikido Sensei was teaching the class. He noticed I was there, and rather than make a big deal out of me being there, he acted more... accommodating, but at the same time not relinquishing his authority.

During a moment when the class was working on something which didn't require him to stand at the front and talk, he had me come up and pick out a couple course books from a white plastic bag, such as you might get from a grocery store.

All the books appeared to be the same, about 1/4" thick and roughly novel-sized in height and width. They were all the same turquoise colour. He instructed me to get two; one for the class lessons, and one to take notes in. I pulled out an unblemished book, and the very next book I grabbed looked like someone had idly traced around the perimeter of the cover, with no effort at art or style, merely completing the circle, if you could call it that. I figured that one could be my notebook, given that I'd be writing throughout the inside.

I remember opening the inside front cover, and amid the existing doodles, signing just my first name. I then flipped through the book, noticing more doodles and markings at what seemed to be random locations throughout. I then remembered that I hadn't signed my last name, so I returned to the inside front cover and signed my last name next to my first. It was then that I noticed my signature looked quite a bit more like how I would have signed it when I was perhaps 10-12 years old, more with the school-accepted glyphs and less like the quick scratches I have now.

Of course I also had that nagging feeling that I was likely too far into the school year to catch up, but then again, if my course instructor was welcoming me (albeit quietly) and urging me to pick up the course books, then there was a sense that maybe I could pull it off.

Somewhere along the way I got the sense of what the course was really all about: creative writing.

Say what? Why would I ever want to take creative writing? I've never been interested in that before. Not for myself, at any rate.

Then there was some sort of snack break during the class. One woman opened a large brown paper bag in my general direction, offering to let me take one of whatever was in there. And I saw that she had Jos. Louis (Vachon) cakes. I helped myself to one.

I then heard my instructor call out to me from the hallway, telling me to meet him downstairs. He said to go down 3 levels, that I would need to do a right, then 2 more rights. "Okay, so 3 rights then. I wonder why he didn't just say that." And I headed off.

I got down to what appeared to be an underground parking garage. It was reasonably well-lit, the walls were painted in a pale white, and the pavement seemed to have a gentle downwards slope towards the middle.

I suddenly heard the hum of motors and the creaking of metal, and noticed some large doors starting to close. I hastened over to them, then through them. I had a sense that the time was just after 9pm, wherever I was.

About 50 feet beyond the metal doors which had closed behind me, I noticed what appeared to be some sort of security checkpoint. There was no kiosk, only one of those simple gate-arms which swings up out of the way when cars enter or leave. Given the time of day, the gate-arm was descending from the permanently-up position to the horizontal, to reflect the shift from daytime security policy to nighttime security policy. There was a lone security guard there, dressed in dark pants and a dull grey shirt. He appeared to be in his 50's, greyish white hair, maybe 5'8" and portly, probably around 200 lbs. He appeared to be of Italian background, and seemed somehow familiar, like I'd seen him in a movie at some point.

From a door on the far side of the garage, a tiny scrum of about 4 people came walking quickly, almost urgently, towards the security officer. They looked tired, pale and a bit haggard. There was a sense of them wanting to get home quickly, and on some level, they each seemed to want to be in front of the others.

The security guard slowly stood up, laughing obnoxiously at this sight. He'd seen it hundreds of times before, but for him it never got old. Probably the only entertainment he gets all day. He knew they would have to line up to get past him. He knew he'd have to lift the gate-arm for each one of them. He knew they would all perform the same ritual they did every day. Just the same-old same-old.

Then the dream shifted.

I felit like I was watching an episode of M*A*S*H. Or was it? It seemed to be the usual tent, and there was Alan Alda. Or Hawkeye, take your pick. I was the passive observer, and he was talking to some woman who sounded like Loretta Swit just off-camera.

Woman off-camera: "So you're the one they call Hawkeye?"

Alan Alda: "Yeah, that's one of the names I get called around here."

Woman: *giggles* "You're funny. And cute!"

Alan: "You're kinda cute yourself. So what's it take to get a date with you?"

Woman: *giggles*

Alan: "No, seriously. How about a date?"

Woman: *still giggling*

Alan: "Meet me at my tent tonight?"

Woman: *still giggling*

Alan: (starting to sound like he's losing his mojo) "C'mon, a date? How about it? Tonight?"

Woman: *still giggling, no hint of giving him an answer*

And, fade to black.