(Entered in paper journal at 6:50 AM at Starbucks on 56th Street and 6th Avenue.)
Dream 1
I stood on a road, possibly an intersection looking down toward a squarish, tiered, red brick building at the end of a dusty dirt parking lot. There was a man there who had seen UFOs at some yearly rate, i.e. once every three or four years. Possibly the last time the man saw one was in 1974. This might have been the year 1980.
In my head I heard the man say that I would be the last UFO he saw. It wasn't quite said like that -- it was said so as to make me feel that I would die and he would probably die, too, if I went tom see him. Nevertheless I was going; it was important for me to talk to someone who knew firsthand about UFOs.
I was in the building, trying to get into the man's office. I was in a loading dock area which was converted (?) to have huge window walls looking out over a desert landscape (?). There was a brick wall dividing this area from the man's office, which I could feel was big and open and bright like this "room."
A woman asked me what I was doing here. She looked severe, like Death in Cocteau's Orpheus: pulled-back, dark hair, a dark dress, a teacher-like appearance. I tried to make something up. to tell her I was goin gover into one of the next offices, could she just let me in?
But the woman may have known who I was. She said, "I have this -- from the man you are really here to see." It was a package topped with a letter.
I walked to a fence, before which the "floor" was dusty soil cluttered by old household junk and toys. The room felt different now, as if all the windows were gone, as if this were a sound stage.
I thought the gifts were worthless. I read the letter, which said something like, "I'm glad to have known you. I'm sorry to say goodbye." The gifts were pies.
I said to the woman, who was loading stuff into the bed of a truck, "That was kind! All the time it takes to make things like this."
Realizing I was just letting the woman load the truck on her own, I stood up to help her. But she said she didn't need any help and that she was almost done. The stuff she had was just little, sundry boxes, not big things like I had thought.
My mom (?) and another person were there. The Orpheus woman was gone. My mom said, "How can they sell stuff like this? Does anybody actually buy it?"
I saw on the wall something like an egg-carton lining with enormous apples in each niche. The apples were green and red.
I said, "Oh, no. They're great. I've eaten some before. I'm not surprised they sell."
I may have been helping my mom load the apples into the back of the truck.
Dream 2
My friend R, my friend Y, and I had traveled a little by the subway and were now late for a trip home, or else we were late for a trip somewhere to take care of some business. I had to work to point this out to R, who determined that if we were this late we would just have to take the ferry (to Staten Island). This was what I'd wanted all along.
But as we ran through the ferry station (which looked like a monstrous version of a ski lodge, with ten-foot-wide walkways stories over the main floor) it became clear R was directing us to Brooklyn. I figured perhaps we did need to go to Brooklyn. But I didn't know how we would get there.
R pointed out that there was a ferry to Brooklyn. I saw a ferry outside (this place was all windows and rich, tannish wood beams, and gave a good view to the ferry docked in dark blue, sleet-driving evening).
I thought, No ferry here goes to Brooklyn. That one goes to Staten Island! But then I thought or saw in my mind's eye that the ferry would take us to Staten Island and then we would take a ferry from Staten Island to Brooklyn.
Dream 3
I was in a hotel room during some kind of celebration. A lot of people I knew were in the hotel. I tried to keep my windows sealed up because some people living nearby were trying to taunt or hurt me, and I didn't want them to know I was around. But the blinds on the windows at the head of my bed weren't closing well at all. I was trying to hang something like a curtain over them.
But outside the window (which was a surprise as the window may have been two or three stories up) was a memorial to a boy who had died. The boy was Hispanic and had probably died when he was seven years old. There were white, wedding-like decorations, balloons everywhere, and little dolls. A picture of the boy was in the center of it all (like all this was attached to a long, folding "lunch room" table), as well as a letter lying before the picture, saying something like "We're sorry you had to go. We'll always love you."
I felt awful shuttering up this memorial. But I also felt like it was precisely this boy's family who were torturing and taunting me.
As I worked on the window my mom walked in. She held two white skeins of sturdy, lightly patterned (striped?) silk which covered the two vertical panes of the window. I thought, They look like they're for a wedding.
My mom said, "These are XXXXX." (Some word like lovely or divine, but somehow also implying a sensuality.) "Yes, these will do just fine."
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