Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Man Who Was Fireproof

A dream last night.

"Hawaii," 1960s or 1970s.

I was someone else. Civilian working on a military base. The only reason I can think its the late 60s or 70s is the facial hair and clothes. Big mustaches, big glasses and sunglasses.

Emergency. Volcanic eruption. I or rather this man that I was, in the midst of chaos of evacuees walks towards the heat. Fires that I touch go out, and I remember it being very peaceful. People rush past me, some covered in ashes as I move towards the nascent volcano on the coast. Burning cloth and straw thatch wink out, the fires not so much extinguished as just gone.

As I approach the cone I feel afraid. Firefighters are hosing the landward side trying to harden the 'a'a flow and direct it out towards the ocean. I walk up the side of the mounding cone. My shoes melt, and I try to keep myself from sinking in the hot, hot rock as the sun is setting. That would be the end of me. The rock cools where I stand, still hot enough to burn, hot enough to turn the rubber of my shoes to goo, but cool enough to walk on. The sun is just about gone as I reach the summit, and the stars shine overhead. My heart is shaking, but the fires cool as I stand on the mount. The firetrucks have left now.

The next day I wander back to the base. People are celebrating. The firefighters and some of the military command are getting the accolades. I'm ash covered and tired, and I see some of my friends at the base, also scientists and civilians rushing over. They are surprised to see me alive since I had disappeared yesterday. One guy has me around the shoulders and asks someone to take a picture of us, saying that this could be 30 years from now. Bewildered I ask what he's talking about and he leads me to a mirror. My hair is streaked with grey and not from the ash, it has actually turned grey in many places from its normal dark brown.

(this is also where I can see that its not me in the dream, as I don't look like this guy, nor could I sport a mustache so full.)

Last part of the dream I stalk into the mess hall and make my way to the kitchen and I brush past indignant brass that's getting all the praise for their heroism. I pour myself a stiff drink.

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