The Three Dreams
Sunday 11/17
I am dateless, hanging out at someone's prom, sitting at a round table covered with a crisp white tablecloth, chopping it up with Prince (or, The Artist!). He tolerates my conversation patiently, looking upon me kindly through his thickly lined doe eyes, and while I speak, I watch him and am amazed at how the man never seems to age. The lights are dim, the strobe lights compete feverishly with the dancers, there's prom night activity buzzing in the background.
I say to Prince, "A lot of today's music harkens back to the 80's, but none of it achieves what you did." This seems to please him, and his pleasant face slowly brightens into an established grin. "Typical artist," I think to myself.
There is a concrete skateboarder's "bowl" nearby, and I climb in. It's dark, and once I go in, the previously curved wall becomes perpendicular to the flat ground, and it's nearly impossible to get out. Somehow, I remain calm and focused and am able to climb out. This happens twice. The third time the bowl has become shallow and I am dismayed to find that there are several prom people who have decided to migrate to the bowl. Now there is no challenge in finding a way out, and it's too crowded, so I climb a few steps up to leave the bowl. I run into someone who had been recording my escape attempts the first two times and shows me what he captured on a large flat screen. I am not phased, though. Just curious about why.
Monday 11/18
Driving down an LA boulevard on my way to meet JB for a work-related assignment, I catch the building in my periphery and know to pull over. It is something I must see.
Once inside the building, I know exactly which apartment to go to. Whenever there appears an apartment in my dreams, it is usually my old place in Washington Heights; a place where I spent about 6 years sharing my waking moments with a revolving door of boy roommates and their neighborhood weedhead friends, roaches bigger than my pinky, an occasional mouse, and lots of peeling paint. Pushing the door open, I know immediately that something has happened here. It is clean, and has remained uninhabited since the murder. In the middle of the bedroom, I stand motionless next to the bed and its disheveled white sheets; I can feel that many things are not right. In a flash, it comes to me in staccato images. I see JB standing over his mother, bludgeoning her to death with a blunt object, probably a sledgehammer. He stands over her - furious and passionate - blindly pounding the instrument against her until long after she is unrecognizable. There is blood everywhere, splattered on the walls, pooled in the sheets.
After catching these images, I am stunned but not surprised; afraid but make no move to leave. I have to go to the bathroom, which is right next to the bedroom. Surveying the room, I notice that there is nothing remarkable about its appearance. No one would ever suspect that something so horrible happened here. He has gotten away with it, but now, somehow, I am the only person who knows his secret.
The sun illuminates the living room through its two long windows, emphasizing the cheery glow of its bright, lime green walls. Its smooth wood floors look especially pretty in natural light. There is no furniture here. It is time to leave.
Turning to take one last look at the apartment before stepping through the door, I press three fingers of my left hand to my lips and wave them through the air. An uncontrollable urge to bless; although it occurs to me that I probably don't even have this power, but the gesture is made with the hope that it will work.
I leave the apartment with all secrets intact.
Thursday 11/21
Edna and Dahlia always look the same in my dreams - the way I remember them when we were all 17. I dream about them semi-regularly, particularly about Dahlia. She used to be very hostile toward and try to ignore me, but in my last few dreams, she's friendly but careful not to get too close. I can't blame her. But now, at least, she smiles when she sees me.
We're all taking a train somewhere. First we're on the subway. Then we transfer to an Amtrak going to Westchester. Tracey is on board. She's always listless whenever she shows up in my dreams. On the train, she's laying across two seats with a pillow and some blankets even though she is on the train for only two stops. I feel nothing but disdain for her. Everytime I see her in any dream, I always try to hide from or just plain ignore her. She's so useless.
I'm happy to see my old friends again, though. It always seems so real when Edna and Dahlia show up in my dreams.
I am dateless, hanging out at someone's prom, sitting at a round table covered with a crisp white tablecloth, chopping it up with Prince (or, The Artist!). He tolerates my conversation patiently, looking upon me kindly through his thickly lined doe eyes, and while I speak, I watch him and am amazed at how the man never seems to age. The lights are dim, the strobe lights compete feverishly with the dancers, there's prom night activity buzzing in the background.
I say to Prince, "A lot of today's music harkens back to the 80's, but none of it achieves what you did." This seems to please him, and his pleasant face slowly brightens into an established grin. "Typical artist," I think to myself.
There is a concrete skateboarder's "bowl" nearby, and I climb in. It's dark, and once I go in, the previously curved wall becomes perpendicular to the flat ground, and it's nearly impossible to get out. Somehow, I remain calm and focused and am able to climb out. This happens twice. The third time the bowl has become shallow and I am dismayed to find that there are several prom people who have decided to migrate to the bowl. Now there is no challenge in finding a way out, and it's too crowded, so I climb a few steps up to leave the bowl. I run into someone who had been recording my escape attempts the first two times and shows me what he captured on a large flat screen. I am not phased, though. Just curious about why.
Monday 11/18
Driving down an LA boulevard on my way to meet JB for a work-related assignment, I catch the building in my periphery and know to pull over. It is something I must see.
Once inside the building, I know exactly which apartment to go to. Whenever there appears an apartment in my dreams, it is usually my old place in Washington Heights; a place where I spent about 6 years sharing my waking moments with a revolving door of boy roommates and their neighborhood weedhead friends, roaches bigger than my pinky, an occasional mouse, and lots of peeling paint. Pushing the door open, I know immediately that something has happened here. It is clean, and has remained uninhabited since the murder. In the middle of the bedroom, I stand motionless next to the bed and its disheveled white sheets; I can feel that many things are not right. In a flash, it comes to me in staccato images. I see JB standing over his mother, bludgeoning her to death with a blunt object, probably a sledgehammer. He stands over her - furious and passionate - blindly pounding the instrument against her until long after she is unrecognizable. There is blood everywhere, splattered on the walls, pooled in the sheets.
After catching these images, I am stunned but not surprised; afraid but make no move to leave. I have to go to the bathroom, which is right next to the bedroom. Surveying the room, I notice that there is nothing remarkable about its appearance. No one would ever suspect that something so horrible happened here. He has gotten away with it, but now, somehow, I am the only person who knows his secret.
The sun illuminates the living room through its two long windows, emphasizing the cheery glow of its bright, lime green walls. Its smooth wood floors look especially pretty in natural light. There is no furniture here. It is time to leave.
Turning to take one last look at the apartment before stepping through the door, I press three fingers of my left hand to my lips and wave them through the air. An uncontrollable urge to bless; although it occurs to me that I probably don't even have this power, but the gesture is made with the hope that it will work.
I leave the apartment with all secrets intact.
Thursday 11/21
Edna and Dahlia always look the same in my dreams - the way I remember them when we were all 17. I dream about them semi-regularly, particularly about Dahlia. She used to be very hostile toward and try to ignore me, but in my last few dreams, she's friendly but careful not to get too close. I can't blame her. But now, at least, she smiles when she sees me.
We're all taking a train somewhere. First we're on the subway. Then we transfer to an Amtrak going to Westchester. Tracey is on board. She's always listless whenever she shows up in my dreams. On the train, she's laying across two seats with a pillow and some blankets even though she is on the train for only two stops. I feel nothing but disdain for her. Everytime I see her in any dream, I always try to hide from or just plain ignore her. She's so useless.
I'm happy to see my old friends again, though. It always seems so real when Edna and Dahlia show up in my dreams.