Joe and I were in a boarding school that was the unitarian church. Some of the members had defected. Everyone had four digit numbers, like dealer-rep numbers at a securities firm. We all had to pick three of the delinquents and match them up with really, really convincing postcards. I was dreading it because I hated writing letters, especially to strangers. Joe didn't mind, and I forget why, but it was something shady, like he was running a con game or he was a drug dealer to those three people or something. Hee. Then I was in granville station, intermixed with all the actors from Star Trek: The Next Generation. They were walking/standing on the long escalator down in a very rehearsed, posed way. Gates McFadden, who had really eighties hair, was explaining it all to me: it was a public appearance or a photo shoot or something. When we got to the bottom, they turned from actors in to real life star trek people, and we were on an obscure deck of the enterprise. Worf was there. There was a swimming pool they were using to train people for going out in zero-g suits. I explained to them how this was a horrible demonstration: swimming pools wouldn't make you feel all sick to your stomach like zero gravity would. They took my advice and took it out of their training program, but still made everyone who used the pool wear the heavy zero-g outfits with heavy backpacks.

g / d

  • Jumping on a trampoline, I am nervous it may break. I don't jump with all my force. I have no gravity anyway.

    The university administration ladies are coming up the sidewalk. We fling ourselves flat on the trampoline as if they can't see us. They seem not to, they keep talking about things we're not supposed to know. They walk in a straight line. When the sidewalk turns, they keep going straight, they walk up the side of the trampoline and up onto its surface. The rules of physics don't apply. They walk right over Josh. He holds his belly rigid and does not breathe and they don't even notice him.

    In the dorm bathroom he draws blue-ink dots up the wall and onto the ceiling. I glare at him but he glares back and says nothing. He sulks. Secretly I like him a lot and why shouldn't he decorate the bathroom, it's boring. Bizz doesn't say anything but I can tell she's pissed.

    Josh climbs the wall and crouches in the high window like a monkey. I keep talking to Bizz but turn so I can watch him. He levers off a portion of the roof; the room is suddenly washed with pale light. It's raining lightly, I shut my eyes and feel it on my face. I halfheartedly try to tell him to put the roof back on, but he knows I don't mean it.

    Later. Josh, I see you have velcro pants as well. May I?

I dreamed that I made passionate love to Catherine Zeta-Jones all night long.

I dreamed I was a legendary kung fu master, and demonstrated my skills by effortlessly holding off an opponent while eating a bowl of shrimp ramen.

I dreamed I was staying in a luxury hotel in Japan and went down to a breakfast buffet of French toast, grits, and bacon.

Then I woke up and remembered that breakfast would be a bowl of Kix cereal, and today I would be taking the bus to my sales job.

I tried to go back to sleep, but it was too late.

Just before waking I dreamt I was sitting at table, in a rather nice restaurant. Across from me, a large window carried the imperfect reflection of the small candelabras that sit on every table, and the blur of motion of the waitstaff. My own reflection, and that of the old man beside me, was indistinct. A basket of garlic bread with paprika, a charger of ice and crudites, and a pair of Staunchon salt & pepper shakers were at the middle of the table; a salad of baby weeds was in front of me. The white bearded old man with bright blue eyes sits on my left. He wears a green and blue plaid flannel shirt, fastened at the throat with a bolo tie. In front of him, on the deep burgundy tablecloth, are a few pieces of grey rock, rock chips, and one leaf shaped flat grey rock the size of his hand. Every few minutes he scrutinizes this flint spearhead and turns it in his hands, then, taking one of the smaller flints, chips at the edge.

This dream seems to me to advocate preparation. But preparation for what? Preparation for hunting, for battle, perhaps. These practical considerations suggest work on my resume, a very practical thing to do. However the man reminds me of that not long ago, I read about a living person who made flint spearheads in the neolithic style that fooled serious collectors. Perhaps, if this one in my dream were he, it is a call to fabricate my own artifices, compositions. As soon as I consider the man's dress, I recall Lou Harrison, and think that this may be the meaning of the dream. I certainly hope it is my muse who is calling.

Last night, I dreamt that I'd written down this phrase:

"I don't know why you say fudge pie, I say Jello."

Of course, this is the Beatles' "Hello Goodbye" but why now the dessert references? What does it all mean?

I was at a house which symbolized Andreea's. An ex-boyfriend of hers came in and tried to start something with me, but he was VERY weak. I didn't feel him hitting me at all but told him to stop, asking him why he was trying to hurt me. He refused, and I fought back - after a while he quit. Andreea said that more would be coming over, and I decided to leave the house, asking her to come with me - she refused. Next door was a combination of my old house in Germany and my old school, there was some sort of service going on and I had to get my backpack from the preacher's chamber. The chamber was in the basement, and the minister was gone. I descended into a low-ceiling dimly lit basement resembling that of my Grandparents in Lippstadt, and found the door. It was about 2'x3'. I tried to open it, but it was blocked by a table between me and the door, oddly enough I couldn't move the table. Besides, I knew that the preacher would be angry, and he was usually a nice guy to everyone. I turned around and went to the top floor, where a window opened out to a field. I scaled out and let myself slide down...

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