The thing about reoccurring dreams is that they keep coming back.

Last night, while I was trying to get a little winter hibernation going, I wandered through thrift stores for what seemed like an eternity. At first it was fun, I was finding all sorts of neat little knitting goodies. Piles of double pointed needles, discontinued yarn, and enough vintage patterns to make an obsessive knitter's heart soar. I found books and silky scarves. Thrifty life was good.

I had started my shopping at The Garment District's Dollar-a-Pound. After finding my treasures, I was transported to a long line of stores that I don't know and don't really remember. But by the time I was through with those, I was looking for something. I had remembered something that I really wanted to find, that I MUST find before I was done with my shopping. This quest landed me in two stores that I've been in many times in dreams past.

One is in a location that I could drive you to...show you right now. You can't see it outside of my dream, but it's nestled right in that triangle between Rt 281 and Rt 13.
Map of Dreamy Thrift Store
That's Cortland, NY, by the way and if you know it, you'll know that my thrift store hides in between a building that used to be a Mister Donut and a plain, run-down residential house. Across the street is an A&W Root Beer (the real kind where you eat in your car) and a Mini-Golf Course.

I never find anything at this thrift store, but still I always have to check. I always end up in this store, at least briefly. I sift through the unorganized piles of clothes, books, and housewares and never come up with anything. But still I buy something, as if I owe the owner a donation of some kind.

After this stop, I'm almost always transported to a thrift/antique store that resides in an old Victorian house. The house has a creeky, magical/haunted feel that puts me at ease at the same time that it tells me to run away from the house as fast as I can. It's always hard to find the owner as the store stretches over many rooms. There's an antique parasol in the foyer that I always run my fingers across. There are brass goblets and rusted swords lying on every ledge and shelf.

This house always puts me in slow motion. I walk through the house for an eternity, looking for my holy grail and forgetting why I'm there every step of the way. By the time the owner surfaces (an older French woman with an accusing and welcoming smile), I get flustered, feeling guilty for drinking in all the beautiful things without holding even one of them with intent to purchase. I can't find what I want and I can't buy anything in this store. Feeling lost and empty, I blush, excuse myself, and head to leave the house....
and wake up.

Feeling restless. Like I'll always be searching in the wrong places.