Early in the evening, all I remember was that I was in an optical shop trying on glasses. My hair was similar except instead of magenta, there was blue. I tried on a pair of thick translucent blue frames that looked the color of blue raspberry soda. The girl who worked there looked like Chuck's ex-girlfriend Nikki when she had shoulder length black hair. She was flirting with me big time.
The optometrist in the store, who was middle-aged and a woman as well with shortish red-brown hair, had an interesting archaic-looking device which she used for tracing frames for cutting lenses. It was basically a clamp that held the frames in place while a narrow pipe coming from somewhere above us that held a small marking device was guided by the woman's hand around the perimeter of the frames. Somehow, this was exact enough for a lab to manufacture lenses with the resultant tracing. A third woman in the store - a customer - remarked how ingenious the machine was.
Later, and this is the dream I awoke with still churning with prose - I think I was a woman with a genetic disorder that affected my legs. My shins, to be exact. I was seeking some sort of genetic therapy from a specialist. I think my consciousness or, really, my point-of-view, flew from character to character in this dream, because I was privvy to the thoughts and feelings of her and these other people in the dream, but never simultaneously. Anyway, she gets the therapy done, but it is a quick-fix, not a permanent solution, as far as she knows. She goes jogging and jogs fine. But then my p.o.v. shifts to inside a surveillance van (FBI, maybe?) and I am inside monitoring her movements. I think it is a pity she does not know that she will soon explode as a result of her "genetic therapy."
Suddenly, the dream flashes backward to before the procedure has taken place. The woman is in the doctor's office and she is asking him about a selection of books she is thinking about reading. This is about the time I'm skirting between consciousness and sleepy-time, because instead of
experiencing the dream, I start
hearing it more as prose within my head. It went something like this:
"He takes the list from her hands feigning interest. In truth he hadn't read a single thing since his wife died 2 years ago. In his profession, that would be pretty much suicide, but he's learned to make ends meet by working on the "special projects" in conjunction with the government. He says in his best sing-song, reassuring voice, "ah yes, this one I think you'll find exceptionally well-written and very insightful," about one of the titles of which the authors name is a least recognized. Actually was a fellow Harvard graduate, if memory served."
And then I heard the scampering from the roof. Look on my
home site for the same date if you don't know what I'm talking about with the scampering.
bhofmeister13