"...a dream"

This is what I dreamed last night. I wrote it down as soon as I awoke. I tweaked it a tad so it would scan, but this is basically it.

I was on a journey with my sisters Sylvia, and Kim. The girls were children again. About 12, and eight. I was a young man perhaps 20. We were riding in a horse carriage. A lovely affair of the sort that the gentry of the Federalist era used. We were riding through Brooklyn, our Borough of Churches. 

However this was a city not built by blind capital, but one wrought by idealists from the Sun King’s realm. So beautiful, such color. A thoughtful, practical lovely city. In the dream I remember leaning out slightly to see as much of this dream Brooklyn as I could. Everything beautiful combining function, and art. 

It’s takes just as much effort to make a beautiful city as it does to make an ugly one.  Someone tell our City Planning Commission.

As we rolled along my sisters did as I always remembered them doing on long trips. They giggled told secrets, and played mysterious hand games. Given what grandma was teaching them I assumed they were casting spells. 

The dream. We were on our way to see a play. A fevered collage of the Red Shoes A Mid-Summer Nights Dream, and something I can’t identify. I could make something up, but it wouldn’t be true to the dream.

The Tickets.
A whole anxious subplot to this dream was my trying to find the tickets. As my sisters sat in their white with hints of silver Jane Austin gowns I quietly poked about my pockets for the damned tickets.
Btw, I’m not a dress designer. So how did I come up with such gorgeous gowns. Also, no architect I, so how did I cook up the Sun Kings Brooklyn?

All the fine details of this dream. Where the hell does all this come from, and don’t start with that collective unconscious static. I think something grander than even that may be involved.
Anyway the footman, yeah that guy was there too. The footman opened the door, and my beautiful little sisters climbed down. So off we went ticketless to the dream theatre.

‘But oh what a theatre!
It was as wonderful as the public housing is grim. Imagine a palace for the arts as designed by Turner, and Walt Whitman. Yeah I could live with that.
We passed under a free floating rotunda whose ceiling was spangled with misty nebulae,…Turner. Wait gets better.
My Brother John. My deceased big brother John. John the war hero. John the politician businessman. John the son husband, father, and brother. My brother Johnny was standing the entrance of this dream pavilion.

As I said I’m writing this down as soon as I woke up. I need to remember this as much as I need to share it with you. He said nothing. The dead never do in my dreams. But he handed me an envelope. It was my lost tickets.
I’ll end it there.
The dream goes on as did the play, my sisters the strange sky. More'n more dream stuff. Better to end it there.