Hiroshi has a nightmare

Remember what I said about the creative process? Here it is, brought to life for your viewing pleasure at 1:03 a.m. -- in all its screaming glory.

I had a nightmare, and it was a doozy.

A friend of mine -- we'll call her Hadley -- was driving us in a VW bug through an icy stretch of highway. It looked like Alaska: glistening mountains, tall pines, and drifts of snow. Above us, a serpent of metal pipes wound in the crisp, blue sky. I held a baby on my lap. The radio was on. My friend Hadley is a violin player for an orchestra, but she asked me the classical piece on the station. At first, I identified it as Mozart, but then corrected myself. "Tschaikowsky," I said. "It's from The Nutcracker -- 'Waltz of the Flowers.' Some people think it's the 'Skater's Waltz.'"

No sooner had these words left my mouth than a huge piece of pipe dropped onto the road in front of us. "Oh my god," I said, so calmly, so calmly. "They're closing the road today. Look out." We swerved around the pipe. I looked up through the window to see a crane getting ready to drop another mammoth section on the road. "Don't hit it, Hadley." The radio was still playing that lilting waltz, and our car danced and twirled. Then there was a blare of horn beside us. We turned to see an eighteen-wheeler barreling by, and Hadley said, "They don't know the road is closed."

I watched as they cut in front of us; for just a moment, I glimpsed the horror ahead. "Hadley," I screamed, "the road is ice." And our wheels began to spin. So did the truck's. It jack-knifed and tipped on its side, still skidding over the road like it was on ice skates. A snow embankment was now the only thing that separated us all from the cold ocean. "The truck is going to sink, and don't you go with it, don't you go with it, don't you go with it." I repeated it over and over, my voice harsh and steady. Not screams now, but firm commands. Hadley pumped the brakes and the car spun in crazy circles. The baby was giggling. My heart burned my throat.

The rig plummeted down the ice hole, while our car teetered at the edge. I knew we were going to be okay, and I was so relieved that I began to cry. I stared out the window, down through the ice. And I could see the truck driver. He was a handsome, brown-haired man in a flannel shirt. He beat his fists uselessly against the window, his mouth open in a wide, silent scream. The truck fell down, down through the crystal water. I knew I had to help him. I knew I couldn't. He was screaming, and banging on the window, and begging for me to save him.

I close my eyes now and I can see his face, mouth contorted in a shriek I can't hear. My dreamscape is littered with fantastic deaths, but this is by far the most gruesome. It is 1:24 in the morning, and I had to come write it down. I wouldn't be able to sleep if I didn't.

The rest of the dream is already fading. I know someone put me and the baby in another car, and I was crying, sobbing to break a heart. "We have to help him," I said, but as I looked around at the people standing by the accident site, I saw that none of them could. They were all women. What we were to do? We shouldn't go with him. We can't go with him. I wept into my baby's hair. It smelled like spring, like life. I felt so helpless, furious at my weakness, terrified, horrified.

And... relieved. It wasn't me. We didn't get taken too. And I couldn't save that man. I didn't even dare to try.

Most of the time I can't tell you what a dream means. This time, I know. Elections are today. For months, there will be hundreds of mouths open in silent, desperate screams. But my "baby," my treasure, my Rider, won't be there. My fear and sadness will be tempered by a bitter-tasting relief. She can't go with them. She won't be lost.

I don't think Waltz of the Flowers will ever sound the same.