Dreams can provide insight into our deepest thoughts. Using dream interpretation to explore dream symbols and uncover a dream's meaning can lead to a better understanding of ourselves.
A couple night ago I had a long and vivid dream, more so than I normally have (because of my meds). I and a lot of other tenants, between six and ten, were waiting on the ground level of our apartment building for an elevator to take us up to our suites. There were two elevators, but when I looked at the numbers above the doors, I saw that only one of them came to the ground floor. There were eight stories to our building (which isn’t right, because the walk-up I currently live in only has three), but one elevator only went between the 4th and 8th floors.
The other elevator was coming down, and we were all anticipating being able to get on. Even though it went from the second floor to the first, it didn’t stop however. Some of the other people muttered discontendly, and even I wondered why it hadn’t let us on. One of the other people waiting for the elevator was a tall, slender man in his late twenties or early thirties, wearing a starched white shirt, black pants, black shoes, and sunglasses, like a stereotypical government agent or something. He silently watched the numbers to by above the elevator to, but I could tell he was a little impatient because his lips were a bit pursed. I reasoned that the elevator may have had to go all the way to the basement (I don’t remember seeing a basement listed on the elevator’s number scheme, but oh, well!) before stopping on the way back up. Except it didn’t stop coming back up. It just left us standing, waiting, while the other elevator seemed to work merrily between the top floors. I saw that the numbers listed above that door weren’t in the right order either. They went 8, 7, 6, 4, 5. I just realized that it was absolutely inane to have a door to this second elevator on the ground floor since it didn’t even come down to the ground floor.
Our elevator finally arrived, and we all got on. Aside from the tall guy in sunglasses, I was the only other man waiting. Everyone else were short, broad women in their fifties, wearing shawls and coats and carrying bits of shopping, waiting to go back up to their apartments and husbands. The only one I remember specifically was an East Indian woman, perhaps 5’5”, with thick dark hair and dark eyes, but with a kind smile. Our elevator was large, like a freight elevator, so there was no problem accomodating all of us comfortably. Entering this elevator, we were next to the right hand wall, while there was a pretty large rectangled space, say 14’ x 12’ on the left. There was even a recessed area in the back, like an alcove in an apartment. I remember either the East Indian woman, or else one or two of the other women moving into that part.
It also turned out that the walls were made of glass. I only found this out as the elevator rose up, and suddenly attached itself to the rails of Greater Vancouver’s Skytrain system. What the hell, I thought? We needed to travel along the Skytrain route to get to our floor? It was bizarre, but no one else in the elevator seemed to make a big deal of it, so I guessed it was normal. We were actually being transported from some other location to our building. Now, the Skytrain is nomrally bumpy and swaying a little, but this ride was unbelieveably smooth. We all had to stand, but there was no turbulence at all as we sailed along the tracks, going eastbound from wherever we’d got on (in Vancouver, I assumed). At first our elevator was centred right overtop the tracks. It didn’t take long, though, before we actually started moving past other objects travelling along the tracks as well – through whatever magic I didn’t know at first, since that literally shouldn’t be allowed to happen, right? I eventually saw, from a view on ground level outside the car, that we were attached to the tracks by a single slat attached to the roof of our car at the back. This was really, really strange. But – Hey! – as long as it got us where we were going who cared what system it used?
As we travelled along another woman I hadn’t seen before struck up a conversation with me. She was a bit taller than the other women, caucasian, with shoulder-length hair. Although I thought her to be older, she appeared to only be in her 40s. Our talk seemed lively and open enough, although I don’t remember what we said. I couldn’t remember for sure, but I wondered if we were more than just friends, or the potential was there for us to go to bed. Whatever we were talking about, the conversation wasn’t going to conclude by the time we got off our elevator, so I invited her to my apartment. At first she seemed a little stunned by the invitation, then accepted. Suddenly I remembered that I hadn’t vacuumed and my place was a mess (this is what my current apartment is actually like), and asked her if she would wait half-an-hour once we arrived before coming by. She was all right with that, but I knew half-an-hour wasn’t nearly enough time for me to get all my **** put away.
It turned out our elevator didn’t actually take us to our building. When I got off – alone – I was in downtown Edmonton (where I’m originally from), somewhere near where 103rd or 105th street used to intersect the old, now defunct rail yard It was a narrow, desolate street, with nice-looking facades of low-rise townhouses along both sides. I caught the bus the rest of the way home. It took me up, close to where the legislature building is. This is actually not far from where my last walk-up apartment block in Edmonton was, but that wasn’t where I went when I got off.
The building I went to had a large, outdoor patio area outside the front door. Quite a few people were outside when I arrived, and they reminded me there was a party for the building caretaker and his wife, who were retiring. My current apartment’s caretaker – Paul – really is retiring, so that part of the dream was accurate. It wasn’t Paul, though, but a large man with a white mustache and beard, and his wife, who were leaving. This couple were a pair who retired from the first apartment I lived in in Victoria, BC, before my ex and I got married. I’d been aware of the party being held for them, but by the time I got to the building the people told me it had already ended. I felt badly about missing it, but everyone told me I should to up to their suite and visit for a while anyway.
This time the elevator in the building, but instead of taking me up to whatever floor – 2nd or 3rd I guess – their suite was on, I was taken to the basement. Suddenly I was with a man I’d hired to help me moved some old furtniture – a large dresser I think – from my designated storage spot in a garage-type chasm up to my apartment. I didn't recognize the building I was living in, nor the basement where my extra belongings were storef. In fact, I can say with a lot of confidence that I barely recognized any of the things I'd supposedly stored. There was more than one dresser. One was a tall wooden one, which was crumbling apart, and there was a shorter, narrower, white one as well. Suddenly, though, it was the next day, and the guy I’d hired had three other helpers to get my things moved. They ended up moving a lot of things around the basement. As the did so I found other, long forgotten items that I guessed were mine, like an, small green desk – like one my dad owned in his twenties, and an old tri-light table-top lamp, leaning in a forgotten corner and covered by about three years’ worth of cobwebs. I probably dreamed of this because my grandma had a lamp just like this for ten years – from the time I was five until fifteen – before she passed away. I took it and brushed the cobwebs off, hoping no spiders would scuttle away as I did so. This I could actually use in my apartment, I realized. In fact, with so much stuff stored down here I didn’t know why I’d bothered getting any of the furniture I currently had in my suite.
The guys were dutifully demolishing the old wooden dressed. It had been tall, wide, and very plain-looking, with about nine large drawers. The explained to me that they would take my broken furniture back to their shop and rebuild it all. Wait one minute, I said, stopping them. How much extra was this going to cost? Oh, about $200.00 more, they said nonchallantly. I balked, though, because I didn’t have an extra $200.00 to give them. I didn’t even know if I’d have enough to pay for all the moving arouund they were doing, which I hadn’t asked for. They’d reorganized or removed so many of my old things that the two isles where they used to be were now pretty vacant. They even started moving around other people’s stuff, which I couldn’t understand, except they were a little too obsessed with their work. Like, once they got started it was hard for them to stop, or something like that? I looked around the large cavernous storage area in the basement, its walls made of old, tarnished brick. It was pretty big, all right. The dresser I originally asked them to move up didn’t get moved, though. And this is where my crazy dream mercifully ended.
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