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March 30th 2017: Building entomologist
It was a full moon in the early morning. I was hanging out in a motel parking lot. So were others – it is a whole subculture.
Later I was at a protest. I ran into a woman I knew. She looks kind of like Lilly Singh (pictured). She liked me but was stand-offish. She said I was hard to figure out. For example, she was not surprised that was I running for city council, but it was for a part of the city where she thought I would get no votes. I said they will love me, they have not had good leadership in 20 years. I was more nervous about the high school class I had to teach the next day: I had not taught in ten years.
After the protest my mother and my sister showed up. My mother noticed that each sign had a letter on the back. I said K was my favourite because it meant you went to the top of the building. My sister said that each protest has a building entomologist. They are the ones who put the letters on the signs, which tell you which doors to go in and out of, which stairwells to go up and down, and so on. She said that from their study of insects they know how to run a protest smoothly. I was surprised she knew any of that stuff.
Remarks: In the dream I knew what an entomologist was but could not tell that my sister was talking hogwash.
March 17th 2017: Drowning cars
I was at the East River just under a bridge. This man pushed a car into the river. It looked like a Model T. I asked him why, but before he could answer two policemen appeared, on foot, guns drawn. Like a fool I ran, but fortunately they ran after him not me. I disappeared into a shop and then understood the profound wisdom of Beyonce and Jay Z and their message about how drowned cars are a threat to the culture, a message they were pushing through television ads and baseball cards.
Remarks: This seems like a free associative dream, more so than the others. Jay Z appears yet again, even though I am not a fan of his. But maybe it is more about Beyonce than him.
March 14th 2017: The wise man
There is more to this dream but what I remember is one image from it: s snow-covered hill (about 200 metres tall, about as tall as the Washington Monument). What appear to be trees at a distance turn out to be old tyres. A road goes along the base of the hill. Along the road walk a boy and an old man. The old man has a staff and a long beard that is unkempt enough to make him look like a wise man. I cross the road to talk to them – but forget the rest.
February 19th 2017: Trains full of roses
I lost something in the New York subway, so I took a time machine and went back in time. On the front page of the New York Times was 9/11, but the pages were yellowed and stiff and the picture showed not the Twin Towers being destroyed but an older, Art Deco, limestone skyscraper, one that looked kind of like the Penobscot Building in Detroit where the top floors are set back:
Waiting on the platform I saw trains full of roses going past towards the Twin Towers and then, hours later, trains full of bodies in body bags passing by the other way. (In real life I was turned back at the Lincoln Tunnel just after the second plane hit.) On the platform were Peruvian women – not the kind you would see in Lima, but the ethnically conspicuous kind from the Andes that you would see in National Geographic, the kind with those hats and wide skirts (pictured below). They were with their children but not their husbands.
I was looking for a sort of key that was also a sort of smartphone and wallet. It was not usable for anyone else, but having lost it was a huge pain. Thus the time machine. I never did find it, but walking through the subway tunnels I met Naomi Campbell and two guys I knew from high school (but not in real life!).
February 17th 2017: J.S. Kannada
After a weekend cruise on Jay Z’s yacht – we kind of knew each other – I went back to my apartment in Virginia (I have never lived there in real life). It was in a building being converted to offices. Some floors already had offices, others were being gutted. I came off the elevator on the wrong floor and overhead two people talking in an office. They were talking about me! And I knew the woman. She said she was going to start a rival blog to mine under the pen name J.S. Kannada. Somehow I saw a screenshot. The name was in red letters on a blue background.
February 12th 2017: Galooza
I live in a small town in England with two wives, one I married for love, the other for sex. I go to the same church as Steve Bannon. He looks just like he does in his pictures. PBS is paying me to take the train: they are remaking a documentary they did in the 1970s and want to compare to see how times have changed. I drink half a bottle of Galooza (the name is something like that). It is thick, brown, bitter yet sweet. It is not alcoholic or carbonated. It has a yellow label in Spanish.
January 16th 2017: The brick heist
I was going to buy $900,000 worth of bricks, in cash, but my wife talked me down to getting just $5,000 since I did not know how good the bricks were. But then there was some kind of mix-up and before I knew it I was in a van full of bricks going down the road, telling the driver to turn back since I had not paid for the bricks. The driver and his friends would not listen to me. We stopped at a roadside diner to eat and sure enough the flashing lights of the police appeared outside.
January 12th 2017: The C building
We were in New York, somewhere in Lower Manhattan, in a huge plaza in front of a big black building. It was named after some rich person whose name began with C. The building had a layered look, as if it were made of vertical black rectangles, each with a rounded corner. It seemed to be the future, maybe sometime after 2050 or even 2100.
In the plaza we joined hands, maybe seven of us, and danced clockwise in a circle. Even though it was summer, fallen leaves began to appear. We kept dancing and then there was snow. We danced more and more and could see the building being unbuilt. Instead of getting shorter it got thinner. We were going back in time. We danced more and more. Then the plaza looked like a Greenwich Village neighbourhood. Then it was a poor neighbourhood. Then grass began to appear under our feet and we found ourselves in the middle of a Native village.
Earlier in the dream I was in Harlem near 125th and Broadway. There was what looked like a resort hotel. It seemed to have been built in the same style period as the C building – it had the same love of broad flat surfaces with one corner rounded.
January 3rd 2017: Morgan Vic
I was at a food court with an old woman who was not my grandmother but who was somehow related to me. I was trying to find a place not run by the biggest food operator “between here and Atlantic City” (a Trump reference?) because he was infamous for food poisoning. Meanwhile the words of a song, like from an ad, kept ringing in my head. The words sounded like:
December 29th 2016: Stone tower
It was the afternoon of New Year’s Eve. My wife and I and some friends went to an early dinner. It was at a food court overlooking an ice skating rink in the centre. The emcee said, “If you’re Chinese, clap”. One man clapped. I had seen him earlier and at that moment he looked at me.
At our table I was trying to write something but the last word kept disappearing. Then I laughed – I was nodding off and when my eyes closed, a friend of mine would erase the last word.
Just before sunset we went to the top of an old stone tower. It stood at the edge of the parking lot of the shopping plaza but was hundreds of years old. It was encased in glass with a stairway going round it up to the top. We went to the top, maybe seven floors up, and sat at the top, overlooking the suburban sprawl between the mountains. It was a thing you did after eating at an expensive restaurant (even though we hadn’t).
At the top my wife and I sat together with an arm around each other’s backs. She was wearing a brown suede winter coat and big black boots – just like Claire, a girl I knew when I was 13, the first girl I knew where just sitting next to her made the world feel right. But in that moment my wife also reminded me of Alfre Woodard in “Crooklyn” – who had a troubled marriage and was dying of cancer. I was happy but my heart was breaking at the same time.
December 23rd 2016: Big neon-pink dildo
I am walking down the street holding a huge, neon-pink plastic penis, circumcised, about my height. I had just been thrown off a bus for “creating a disturbance.” The sky was grey and overcast, like it had been thinking about rain all afternoon. Even though I was walking through a quiet suburban neighbourhood where one would not expect to see a bus, one pulled up. The driver opened the door and offered me a ride. She looked like Shelley Duvall in “The Shining” (1980). I said, “No thanks. I’m fine.” She seemed to find me an amusement, not someone in need of a ride.
It must have been a flashback because the next thing I knew I am telling the story of it to my son. He snickers and says, “Oh, you mean like Barrot Tillotson.” Tillotson was a kiss-up I knew from high school, a character in my life story (but not in real life!). I tried to keep a straight face and said deadpan, “Yes, just like Barrot Tillotson.” An inside joke my waking self does not understand.
And then I wake up.
December 4th 2016: Going to the Supreme Court
I was in one of those hotels with breakfast included. I made my tea (in a soup cup) and was looking for a jelly doughnut and a place to sit. The hotel was in Washington, DC: a friend of mine was just outside looking at the Supreme Court building. She was uneasy. We were headed there on some kind of business. From how she dressed, it was spring or fall.
The friend is not someone I know in real life – yet (some of my dreams come true). She was not a girlfriend. Given the age difference (she was maybe 25) and the circumstances (travel to an extremely important court case), she was most likely a relative. She was light-skinned with what looked to be dreadlocks. She was dressed down like a university student, in an olive jacket and blue jeans. If she was a granddaughter, then it was at least the 2040s.