I dreamt I fell from a very long ladder. I fell and I watched my body falling and I saw a man painting at the very top of the yellow wall, next to the cream crown moldings. I fell and it was slow and I noticed the scuffed side of the wall as I fell and I heard and saw the people below me; those looking up seeing me and smiling and I thought it was going to hurt. I hit the floor, landing amidst a pile of broken wood and splinters and I was surprised because it did not hurt at all. I stood up.
I awoke with a start and I heard my husband ask, “What do we have for breakfast?” I said, “We have fresh raspberry loaf and strong coffee with sweet cream. I dreamt I fell off a terribly high ladder”. He said, “Okay”. I stood up and felt my entire body was achingly sore. “I feel as if I really fell off that ladder in my dream. I am sore everywhere”. He was silent and then said, “You live a strange life sometimes”. “Yes, I do”, I responded and I hobbled off downstairs to brew bubbly coffee; strong, serious coffee set up against falling from tall ladders and Saturday grays.
Later in the week, I drive home from work and stratus clouds hang, heavy and yellow gray over the edges of the overpass and the steady stream of traffic on the expressway below me and I feel the bridge shake a little and then I stop at the red light at the corner of Clinton and Goodman. The city feels surrounded in gray air; rejecting spring with every sidewalk panel glistening wet and cold and thick with graupel. The light is red forever. I see the theater across the street where I have never witnessed a film. I see the long, silver frame of the Highland Diner where plates of chili cheese fries and delectable Jazz burgers work their magic on winters. I glance up at the building to my right. I am parked next to the The Angry Goat; a down in the heels establishment sitting cattywompus at the corner of lilacs and blight.
I stretch and crane my neck near the top of the windshield and on the backside of the building, at the peak of the iron rickety fire escape, I note the open window; yanked up in defiance and facing the stream of traffic on the expressway below and the winds sweeping down through hidden side streets and homes on Goodman, up the climbing hill to Colgate Divinity and spilling over into the growing wealth spread of the suburbs and past Mount Hope Cemetery where Frederick Douglas shivers in his grave. The window is completely dark and there is nothing in this world which would bid me enter. Nothing looks safe at the top of this fire escape and the screen appears to be rusted and ripped and then suddenly the light turns green.
As I drive through the intersection, there is an elderly man wrapped up in a gray sweater and wearing what appears to be a long, plastic cape; the kind which one wears when getting hair done in a salon. He stands at the corner of The Angry Goat and I turn and look at him but he is staring off into space and I note a long, thin line of what must be hair dye running down the side of his face. It is too cold to be outside with wet hair and the drab wet of the plastic cape causes me an involuntary shiver. I drive on.
He is falling off his own tall ladder, it seems and I realize we share that. We share the open window facing North and in some odd way, we most likely share The Angry Goat, planted cattywompus in defiance. I glance quickly in the mirror to check my hair.
690 Saint Paul 