Perhaps the judgment at the end of the last dream is to make me ask myself why I choose to jot down my dreams in a place that prompts me to 'publish post.' (or perhaps why everything I make seems to be ultimately autobiographical). Maybe I AM a ____. At least some kind of a ____-____ ____! But I do enjoy writing these and having my easily lost spontaneous dream images archived for later consideration.
If you judge me for it, perhaps find something else to read?
Love to you and the Universe,
--The Editor
Friday, August 8, 2008
smoking tids and, yes, bits
Kevin has taken his Elvis picture (which I really liked) and a little nothing picture I painted out of my room to keep safe in a little grove at the back of the garden. the absence of those things makes me redo my room.
i look for another place to work also in the sprawly open space (but I don't know where K's secret place is. (LR? hints?). I run into a giant spiderweb and lots of other people from the neighborhood.
some whole long bit about teenagers trying to steal the ford with me right there but they are stuck in traffic and I can't get any one to help. I walk around the car, call 911 and get phone trees and salesmen.
the whole place I live and work (which appears to be a school) is burning. It's been burning for awhile and I guess we don't care. We are upstairs at De Ville Ct. having a kind of dull party and looking through photographs.
I leave. there's some long bit about what sweats I'm wearing and a stack of old paintings on paper tucked into something I need to move. Some were gifts. Some I'd completely forgoten. The building is still burning. It's late Friday afternoon and the firemen are about to quit for the weekend. I call up to Reinhard, "There is a fire we need to put out."
The firetruck speeds passed without doing anything. The inside beams of the building are now orange.
I think I might have to do it myself, dressed in flannel one piece sweats (am I a victim, Freud?) and a light blue sequined bra I accidentally stole - an heirloom from my grandma to Juliet. Then Reinhard and some friends come down. He calls me a bad name and is shocked at some photos he found that I took - he thinks in Austria, but they are the Vermont photos (tough, yes - shocking, no). Anyway, I am the scandal. At least now maybe that building will be saved.
i look for another place to work also in the sprawly open space (but I don't know where K's secret place is. (LR? hints?). I run into a giant spiderweb and lots of other people from the neighborhood.
some whole long bit about teenagers trying to steal the ford with me right there but they are stuck in traffic and I can't get any one to help. I walk around the car, call 911 and get phone trees and salesmen.
the whole place I live and work (which appears to be a school) is burning. It's been burning for awhile and I guess we don't care. We are upstairs at De Ville Ct. having a kind of dull party and looking through photographs.
I leave. there's some long bit about what sweats I'm wearing and a stack of old paintings on paper tucked into something I need to move. Some were gifts. Some I'd completely forgoten. The building is still burning. It's late Friday afternoon and the firemen are about to quit for the weekend. I call up to Reinhard, "There is a fire we need to put out."
The firetruck speeds passed without doing anything. The inside beams of the building are now orange.
I think I might have to do it myself, dressed in flannel one piece sweats (am I a victim, Freud?) and a light blue sequined bra I accidentally stole - an heirloom from my grandma to Juliet. Then Reinhard and some friends come down. He calls me a bad name and is shocked at some photos he found that I took - he thinks in Austria, but they are the Vermont photos (tough, yes - shocking, no). Anyway, I am the scandal. At least now maybe that building will be saved.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
no free lunch
will give myself fifteen minutes - though I think most of this has gotten away.
so incredibly intricate though.
where to start? was in East Hampton, not at the old house but out and about a bit. my friend, Charise from high school was there and others, notably, I guess, Karl Rove whom I sat next to at some outdoor function. I was relieved to see my friend Jeff Jennings at the end of the row of chairs who was already smartly engaging Rove in some fresh discussion of contemporary politics. I said 'Let's go party in New York!'. It was early evening and the train of course takes three hours, but it felt right. I just had to have it, but also, apparently, I had to go see if I was welcome there.
(this after, I think, being on Strawberry Hill. Reinhard's friend, Randi, has kissed me to show me the hill is made of exceptional strawberry ice cream and the branches that have curled around the swingset that we've been swinging into the bright blue sky on he also breaks off: translucent sugar - ah! the Hamptons.)
so I go to New York ahead of everyone and go back to the apartment. ___ is there and many friends. (as I'd dreamt of the night before - the old house returned, full of people partying, using all the rooms). It is all fading fast but I go directly to ____ and ask if I am welcome anymore. ___ is very high and clearly has learned to hate me. I feel very hurt by it and sad for the loss of a sweeter connection. But I can't stay. I wander around the house and see all of A's things, a gold hair brush, shoes that change color when you dial the top of them, wardrobes full of elegant, sparkling dresses. (this is from a later part, but I'm running out of time and the shoes were cool). shoes become an issue though, because I leave the apartment apparently without mine. I am lifted down in an open gilded elevator. A lot of fun. I hadn't known about it. When I get to the bottom there is a man there who says I have to go out, come back in and pay for the ride. I go outside and realize I have no money and I have no shoes. I wander around what is now Brooklyn on bare, dirtying feet. I know they are waiting for me to go in and pay for my gilded ride, but I won't be able to. The street is bustling. I like it but know I'm in trouble. Then I see, just like the universe was providing for me - shoes in many sizes, lined up like the street sellers used to have them. I know I'll find my size, do, and then see a tag on them: 86 dollars!
I think then I go back to the apartment, see Andrea - yes, again not dead just for some undesignated interim of time. She has the shoes that change colors and everything else. She explains that ____ is mad because I didn't accept the offer of some big wigs to sponsor the Homer project, some bank guy and another chemicals guy.
There is a disconnected bit about a bus through the city. Karl Rove there now, calling out a window as I go through the streets (on a bus that won't stop; we'll have to jump) with my friend Brett, that the government just sees a black man as a dark Mormon - whatever that means, but it echoes through the streets and I have to admit he is ballsy and sure of himself.
So, at the end, there is lunch/dinner mostly a lot of champagne with big-wig #1. I'm drinking too much and the Russian next to me suggests I stop so I'll be ready to meet with the chemicals big-wig. I drink the glass to the bottom anyway. The feeling is unnervingly spendy but agressive, dumb, loud, showy, unfun. This is how you have to play to work New York, I think. ____ and ____ leave. The bill is 500 Euros a person!! I pull out all the bills I have. No euros. Nothing more than a twenty. I have used black duct tape to make my own shoes.
so incredibly intricate though.
where to start? was in East Hampton, not at the old house but out and about a bit. my friend, Charise from high school was there and others, notably, I guess, Karl Rove whom I sat next to at some outdoor function. I was relieved to see my friend Jeff Jennings at the end of the row of chairs who was already smartly engaging Rove in some fresh discussion of contemporary politics. I said 'Let's go party in New York!'. It was early evening and the train of course takes three hours, but it felt right. I just had to have it, but also, apparently, I had to go see if I was welcome there.
(this after, I think, being on Strawberry Hill. Reinhard's friend, Randi, has kissed me to show me the hill is made of exceptional strawberry ice cream and the branches that have curled around the swingset that we've been swinging into the bright blue sky on he also breaks off: translucent sugar - ah! the Hamptons.)
so I go to New York ahead of everyone and go back to the apartment. ___ is there and many friends. (as I'd dreamt of the night before - the old house returned, full of people partying, using all the rooms). It is all fading fast but I go directly to ____ and ask if I am welcome anymore. ___ is very high and clearly has learned to hate me. I feel very hurt by it and sad for the loss of a sweeter connection. But I can't stay. I wander around the house and see all of A's things, a gold hair brush, shoes that change color when you dial the top of them, wardrobes full of elegant, sparkling dresses. (this is from a later part, but I'm running out of time and the shoes were cool). shoes become an issue though, because I leave the apartment apparently without mine. I am lifted down in an open gilded elevator. A lot of fun. I hadn't known about it. When I get to the bottom there is a man there who says I have to go out, come back in and pay for the ride. I go outside and realize I have no money and I have no shoes. I wander around what is now Brooklyn on bare, dirtying feet. I know they are waiting for me to go in and pay for my gilded ride, but I won't be able to. The street is bustling. I like it but know I'm in trouble. Then I see, just like the universe was providing for me - shoes in many sizes, lined up like the street sellers used to have them. I know I'll find my size, do, and then see a tag on them: 86 dollars!
I think then I go back to the apartment, see Andrea - yes, again not dead just for some undesignated interim of time. She has the shoes that change colors and everything else. She explains that ____ is mad because I didn't accept the offer of some big wigs to sponsor the Homer project, some bank guy and another chemicals guy.
There is a disconnected bit about a bus through the city. Karl Rove there now, calling out a window as I go through the streets (on a bus that won't stop; we'll have to jump) with my friend Brett, that the government just sees a black man as a dark Mormon - whatever that means, but it echoes through the streets and I have to admit he is ballsy and sure of himself.
So, at the end, there is lunch/dinner mostly a lot of champagne with big-wig #1. I'm drinking too much and the Russian next to me suggests I stop so I'll be ready to meet with the chemicals big-wig. I drink the glass to the bottom anyway. The feeling is unnervingly spendy but agressive, dumb, loud, showy, unfun. This is how you have to play to work New York, I think. ____ and ____ leave. The bill is 500 Euros a person!! I pull out all the bills I have. No euros. Nothing more than a twenty. I have used black duct tape to make my own shoes.
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