Bad Dream 207 - A Special Flute

In my dream, I am holding a special flute.  It's made from wood, much like my collection of Bansuris, but there the comparison stops.

It's a fairly large diameter flute, but not excessively so.  And it's roughly 24 inches long.  It seems to have been carved out of a larger piece, unlike the bamboo of the Bansuris.  

And it has a great many holes up and down the length of the flute.  Obviously, a single person hasn't got enough fingers to cover all the holes, but it's clearly meant to be played by a single person.  One of the holes near the middle is shaped like a whistle that a policeman or football referee would have.  And on further examination, I can see that it can be played from either end.

I'm with someone, who is most likely my sister, and she and I are both rather taken with the flute and trying to figure out how to play it. 

Clearly, whomever made this flute had something very special in mind, and I wish that person were nearby to show me how it is played.  

It is a rather joyful time, being with my sister and having such a wonderful puzzle -- a musical puzzle -- to play with.

(It should be noted that I haven't touched any of my flutes in weeks, and every time I walk past them, I feel a moment of frustration and commitment to get back to playing soon.  But I haven't made it that far for far too long.)

Bad Dream 206 - What's With Dad and Richard?

My Dad was one of the most even-tempered persons I ever knew.  But in my dream, he is clearly agitated and mad at me.  And I can't imagine why.

I don't recall anything in my dream concerning the place where the dream takes place.  Probably indoors somewhere, but no idea where. 

I ask my Dad what the problem is -- and clearly he has difficulty expressing exactly what the problem is.  He kind of starts saying something, then stopping. He does this several times.  Then he finally blurts out "Your brother has something to say to you."  He then sweeps his right hand horizontally across his body and says "Swoosh."  He then looks at me as if that gesture and word combination should explain exactly what the problem is.  

Richard then says something that I don't recall, but he then makes the same gesture and says "Swoosh" just like Dad had done.  Now, both of them look at me expectantly -- as if what their problem is should now be perfectly clear.  And, of course, I have no idea what's going on.

Now, since Richard's efforts to explain have failed, Dad takes over again.  His attitude is now, "Well, if I have to explain this in specific words, here it comes."  He accuses me of splashing water on the Meeting House's kitchen floor and not cleaning up.  (Please note, my Dad wasn't a Quaker and had only visited the West Chester Meeting House once.)

I feel some relief now that the subject has been explained to me.  But I tell both Dad and Richard that I hadn't been in the Meeting House -- much less the kitchen therein -- in well over a year.  Dad hears this and gets an "Oh, yeah.  Like you expect us to believe that?"  And I assure him -- and Richard -- that it's true: I haven't set foot in the Meeting House for a very long time.

Dad seemingly still doesn't believe me, but he moves on to another point of attack (to prove that he's justified in being angry at me).  And that attack is that he is a strong supporter of Donald Trump.  And he and Richard start cheering.