Wednesday, July 24, 2019

Waiting in line to get into some general admission event, maybe a tennis match. Gazing at the people at the front, waiting to be rewarded for their enthusiasm and tenacity. Some were sitting in folding chairs like they’d been there for hours, or maybe since last night. Someone just ahead of us let one in our group skip over them and I said thanks, it’s very nice of you.

I was in a Formula 1 car for a moment, going through a familiar spot from some famous track. Under a bridge and to the left.

Tuesday, July 09, 2019

I was with a group of friends and relatives, my wife, my sister, others. Suddenly I felt compelled to rise and tell a joke, which I delivered in the manner of Johnny Carson: “I hear President Trump is planning to attack Iran this October,” I began. “I’m told members of the military will be wearing pink—in honor of National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.”

They all peered at me in stony silence. I muttered curses at myself as I sat back down, for having misjudged the crowd, misjudged the joke, for having failed.

Tuesday, July 02, 2019

A group of us had gotten together and we were eating, drinking. I grew bored and drew a picture of an airplane, copied from somewhere else, the back of a little brochure maybe. Three-quarter view from the rear, climbing slightly. It became a picture of a horse.

Monday, June 17, 2019

Many people lived with me in one of the old band houses. College kids. There was some concern that bills would not get paid and things would get turned off. I had to explain to them all one morning, as I lay in bed, that the band had taken care of these things before and I’d make sure they would still. There was so many tenants now, though, I thought—maybe everyone could contribute a couple of dollars a month?

Monday, June 10, 2019

I had befriended a cabbie of Middle Eastern origin who was now bedridden, and from time to time I’d visit him in his apartment in midtown Manhattan. On this occasion he told me a parable, or a joke, or whatever you want to call it, about a spiritual seeker who decides he’s transcended whatever there is to learn in his holy book, so he burns it. “But he should have just put it up on a shelf,” the cabbie said. “What’s wrong with burning it?” he asked. I answered, and he spoke the words with me: You can’t unburn it. I hugged him and wished him well. Now I had to figure out how to get home, and I was in London, not New York City, and home was Paris.

Wednesday, June 05, 2019

At a bar with P. C. In reply to something he said, I remarked that I was just another white guy in a blue shirt. There were these other guys at our table and I said, “I guess we’re all just white guys in blue shirts,” and one of them called me an idiot because his shirt was more of a green-blue. P. C. added up the tab, which was a very complex sort of ledger, with rows indicating numbers of each drink ordered. He did the math quickly, and in the dream it occurred to me that he used to struggle with math. “Yeah, that was because of the plague,” he said. “The bubonic plague. But I’m better now.” The guys at our table were bearded hipsters, and they were ironically eating classic Drake’s Cakes—Funny Bones, I think. They lived in the renovated top floor of a nearby building, the rest of which was gutted, with empty windows. We could see it right across the street from the bar. P. C. got right near me and I thought I’d make a joke: “I’m afraid you can hear the voices inside my head,” I said, then covered my mouth coyly, like I was really shy about what those voices might be saying. The table erupted in laughter.

Wednesday, May 29, 2019

I was at a pub in England somewhere with my dad and a few others. Three guys who had been friends of my older sister and I had just recently met. One of them lit up a bowl and passed it to my dad, who smoked it a little self-consciously, as it was his first time, but without much hesitation. He held it out over me for the person to my right and I intercepted it, a little annoyed. I drew deeply and exhaled. The smoke didn’t taste like normal pot smoke, and I remarked so to someone, who agreed. It was time to get more pints, at least as many as I could carry. When I returned to the table Julia Child was there. In the dream she had known my parents a bit, so it was normal for her to say hello, but I was quite proud that there she was, sitting with us. I tried to explain to her how we knew these other people, what their connection was to my sister, long story short, etc.