Dream #5

I needed some unwrinkled dollar bills, and all the dollar bills I had were completely crumpled. The line at the bank was too long so I wandered down the corridor to the auditorium and opened the over-sized auditorium doors. In the cavernous dark room sat a small illuminated table with helpful lady attendants and only a couple of students in line. They were collecting for the United Negro College Fund, so got in line and prepared to trade my wrinkled dollars for straight ones but thought I’d better make a donation while I was at it instead of just trading dollars. So after a lot of consternation, I decided to trade in three wrinkled dollars for flat ones and donate two dollars to the fund. Just as I got to the attendant lady with her metal cash box, I felt the tension on the waistline of my pants go slack and my pants started to sag. I tried to ignore it and deal with the transaction, but my pants sagged some more and both my hands were busy, one clutching dollars to trade and one clutching dollars to donate. The problem was not going to solve itself. Then I saw the button on the table – the button Veronica had sewn on my pants. The button had popped, I wasn’t wearing a belt, and still wanted to trade up for flat dollar bills, while my pants kept slipping and sliding down my hips.

Dream #4

I get stopped for speeding. I tell the cop he’s a terrorist sympathizer who wants America to fail. He lets me off with a warning. I complain. He admits that he’s not really a cop or a terrorist sympathizer. He’s really Sky King and we go for a spin around the arctic circle in his float plane. We get stopped for speeding by my neighbor riding his leafblower. I tell Sky King, “Hey let me handle this,” and I tell my neighbor, “Hey, I’m your neighbor.” He lets us off with a warning and gets in the plane. Everything is green and white and blue, even the traffic lights. That seems really weird, like you know in your dream that something is not quite right, but the idea starts to grow on Sky King and my neighbor and me. We agree that if traffic lights were green and white and blue, the world would be a better place. Much better. I wake up feeling really good about the inevitable forthcoming betterness. Blue means go. White means wonder. Green means pause.

Dream #3

It’s 20° below zero in a tent on a bog in a howling, whistling storm, and I’m panicked at sinking into the bog and trying desperately to chew my way through the ripstop nylon while sinking slowly into the ooze - - - so that I might somehow escape to the nearby warm and sunny and well-equipped luxury lodge towards which my outstretched fingers are madly but futilely grasping; but the the damp messy muck slowly envelops me until I am submerged but as soon as I'm underwater I'm instantly, miraculously enveloped in the warm, strangely dry and majestic ribcage of a giant fish who conveys me towards the luxury lodge and as I'm salivating over the forthcoming hot toddy on the terrace of the luxury lodge, the waiter in real time is announcing the arrival of a steaming plate of freshly cooked swordfish entrée for which I no longer have any appetite whatsoever.

Dream #2

I go into a bar. It is very old. The kind where all the wood has an old world patina from thousands of hands and arms shining it. The bar is very dark. In the center is a band playing. I can barely make them out. I see their arms and hands moving but i don't hear anything. A small crowd sits around them "listening". I strain to hear and think that I finally hear the light strumming of a guitar. After a short time the band gradually plays louder (but not too loud) and ends with a soft crescendo.

Dream #1

I'm at an arts center, like the High but smaller. There is a sudden hubbub, people moving around excitedly, almost like a crime scene. Turns out a forgery has been discovered - one of the featured pieces. Patrons, workers, art people, everyone is commenting on it and giving their take. A spontaneous seminar takes place with gallery people talking about the history of "art crime" and individuals, even the waiters who are circulating with finger food and ice water, piping up with anecdotes, jokes and pointed remarks.

The atmosphere is "we're all in this together" in this spontaneous event, very convivial, a brief suspension of rich and poor, patrons and workers. It's hot, and amid the talk, people are guzzling ice water and asking for refills like there's no tomorrow. You can hear the click of ice cubes against glass all over. The waitrons are happy to oblige, whisking around with big pitchers of water, commenting on the forgery and pouring water here and there. At my table the waitron pours water into our glasses and I take a satisfying pull of clear ice cold water. The guy is just about to go away to refill the pitcher when another table nearby waves to him urgently about something. He can't do two things at once so he stands there for a second and in a moment that crosses the usual boundaries he turns to look at me, holds out the empty pitcher and asks if I would do him the favor of refilling the pitcher with water.

This is THE LOOK - our eyes are locked and a lot is going on in that look. He's taking advantage of this spontaneous democratic atmosphere, and I'm wondering why me and why should I and am I obligated. But I am thirsty so.... I say ok. He is greatly relieved and pushes the pitcher into my hands and mutters something about the kitchen being back there before rushing off to the other table.

So I get up and move uncertainly to the back of the big central room. There's no kitchen, just a sink, and I fill the pitcher. I'm just about to go back to join in the fun when I look down and notice there's just a couple of weakass little leftover ice cubes floating on the top of the pitcher. The water's cold, but its not ICE COLD. This won't do. That was the whole thing that made the water so good - the ice. I look back at what is now a party and look around for an ice machine, but there isn't any. I've got a choice to make - go back or look for ice. The ice wins.

There's a couple halls leading out of the room so I walk down one holding the pitcher of water. The sounds of the party fade and it seems the rest of the center is empty. And no ice machines. Everything looks dark, weird and eerie as I proceed. I get to a room and there's a woman there. She turns and asks, "so what should I paint?" Turns out she's here for a class and we chat and I clear up the misunderstanding. "I'm just looking for some ice" I say, hefting the pitcher by way of explanation. I ask her if there's a fridge or ice machine nearby and she gives vague directions to another part of the center, so I head off again, in search of ice for the pitcher of water.