(1/26/05) calling 911 for directions

(Entered in paper journal at 10:30 PM at home in Harlem.)

(I'm not sure whether the weird, address-like writing above is from a dream I didn't write down.)

Dream 1

Was in a parking lot, tried to help a carload of black (?) people find some place. Called an info number on cell phone, walked through grocery store. Hung up cell phone, now walked through house in party. Dialed a number again, asked receptionist for directions to place. Didn't know what I meant. Realized now I had dialed 911, not 411. Hung up phone, feared I was being followed by police. ML came up, showed me bedroom with people dancing. I turned away, feeling nobody liked me. Read comic strip of Siamese cat eating hot spicy food, quenching thirst in toilet, realizing it had just eaten shit.

(2/1/05) did it really happen?; friends at a film festival

(No place/time info for entry in paper journal.)

Dream 1

I was up in a bedroom overlooking a backyard and a street like a "T" or cul-de-sac separated from the backyard by a tall, wooden fence. A group of kids played in the backyard. A girl, possibly black, walked down the street and was suddenly hit by a car.

Everybody in the backyard, somehow seeing the event "through" the fence, panicked. I tried to keep a hold on my emotions. I called 911. I talked with them for a while, giving a confusing speech about where I was, when the accident happened, and if anybody had helped yet. But now the dispatcher was telling me the girl had already been taken away, dead, by some police who had been called earlier.

I was now standing somewhere like a backyard with my mom. It was now like all of this had only been a "suggested" (i.e. not really remembered) memory of my life from when I was two or three.

I asked my mom, "Did it really happen?"

My mom said, "Yes."

I said, "Well, did I see it happen?"

But my mom didn't answer. She just looked at me, deciding whether she should tell me. The closer she got to telling me, the less I wanted her to. I felt like if she told me out loud what I already suspected, all the trauma from the accident would come back on me, even worse.

Dream 2

I was part of some short film festival. The films had been shown. Now people were "voting" for the ones they liked. Part of the films were briefly shown. Then people would say positive or negative things.

I couldn't stand to think of my film being judged. I walked out to a bridge that crossed from New York to New Jersey. It was strange. It looked like it had hills or slopes or tiered tunnels to it. I walked up to the beginning of a footpath. A woman came up and asked me directions somewhere. I may have helped her.

I was now walking down a street, toward my friend Y and her new boyfriend HK. Y asked me why I hadn't voted for HK's film to be in first place. I said, "Because it was... not flat, but not as complex and full as it could have been."

Y got mad. She started saying all kinds of positive things in defense of HK. Now she was holding something in her hand -- white, sometimes textured like an Osage Orange fruit, sometimes textured like cottage cheese or a Pakistani pistachio dessert, sometimes textured like a small, long-furred, grey and white kitten.

Y asked me, much more calmly, almost sadly, why I never try to make contact with her. I made some excuse and then said something like, "But we're talking now. We're making contact now. Let's keep it up."

(4/14/08) jets and highway murder

(Entered in paper journal at 5:30 AM on Q-train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.)

Dream #1

I was watching a television show about jets. Then it was like I was actually in a plane, looking down on the jets as the narrator discussed them. My brother was with me. I pointed out each jet to him.

We would gain altitude to reach each new grouping of jets. I was afraid of gaining so much altitude, but I didn't show it, and I was happy to see the jets up so close.

I pointed out one of my favorites to my brother, one called the Skylab. It had three wings in a triangular configuration and a sloping nose. There was another large plane that flew alongside it. After that was a "scout plane" with a disc-like or flying-saucer-like front end. My brother didn't seem to be interested in any of these jets.

I had seen this whole progression of jets before, on television, and I knew there would be a last jet to follow, which would head straight up into the sky. I hoped we would follow this jet soon.

But now my brother and I were in a car on a highway, in a shallow recess between two slopes. As we approached a bridge that passed over the road we were on, I looked out my side of the car (the right side?) and saw a little, Hispanic boy (or girl?). We must have been driving at normal speed. But now it seemed like we were driving at a walking pace. The little, Hispanic child had been killed. His arms and legs were taped together. Beside the child were various cultic objects, like candles.

I wanted to get out of the car to tend to the dead child, but I thought it wouldn't be smart. The people who had killed the child might still be around. This might be a trap.

As we passed under the bridge I saw the rest of the family lying in the dirt. They all were also all dead and taped up. There also seemed to be a table and food, all overturned, like this had been the family's house. The mother's eyes were open, and it was like she was looking at me. I thought, I've never seen a dead body before.

I might have been driving the car. I told my brother to call 911. I gave my brother my cell phone. We had called 911 and gotten to a turnoff from the highway into a part of a turn like an industrial park.

I now thought I needed to head back to where we had come from. Somebody was supposed to arrive here after us, but I wanted to get to them and warn them that the might have trouble doing so.

But when I tried to get back onto the highway, a female police officer stopped me. The highway had been closed, the officer explained, while the murder of the Hispanic family was being investigated.

(9/3/08) i get lost calling 911

(Entered in paper journal at 6:04 AM on Q-train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.)

Dream #1

I was at a party with a group of co-workers. We all sat by a pool in the backyard of a big house. It was probably night. My co-worker DE had disappeared, but now he had climbed back over a tall, iron gate to m right. He stood on a box like an electric power box. His hair was long, but upright and frizzy, like he had been electrocuted. His hair was pale blonde, almost like a bad dye being washed out to white.

DE was plainly drunk. He loudly called attention to himself and then plowed himself face first off the box and onto the ground. Everybody shouted as he did it for him not to do it.

At first I wasn't too worried. I thought he'd be okay. But now everybody was screaming.

My view of DE had been blocked by something. I stood up and saw DE lying face down in a pool of blood. DE's body was quivering.

I ran out to the front yard, grabbing my cell phone. I yelled back, "Does anybody know the address to this place?" Nobody did. I looked at the house number, then, as I dialed 911, I ran up to the corner of the street to find the street name.

An operator had answered. I said, "I'm calling from..." (I looked at a sign.) "... Boulder County."

The operator said, "Yes."

I said, "I am on XXXXX." I might have said the street name and number. But I soon began whether the operator would understand me at all, and whether I was giving the right address.

I walked back to the house. I walked around inside. But nothing looked familiar to me.

I remembered that the people who owned the place I had been in before were a husband  and wife. The husband was named "Erin." Both the husband and wife may have been illustrators. They had invited all of us over for a party.

I kept walking through the house, hoping to find something familiar. I came upon a man, who asked what I was doing here. I may have told him.

I continued going through the house. I was on a second level. A Mexican woman asked me if I was looking for Erin. I said I was. She said, "His house is right next door."

The woman pointed to what was first a slight opening in the wall. The opening then appeared to be a balcony looking into the next house.

I looked over as the woman continued talking (probably about how Erin was an illustrator). That place didn't look like the place I knew, either. The walls were painted with a strange design, like red, black, and white Native American pottery. The walls were enormous.

I looked further over the balcony. There stood a tall sculpture. The layout of it was like Rodin's Six of Calais, but all the characters were papier mache, in color. They were modernish, all old, white, skinny-looking, with big noses, and big, blue eyes. They wore colorful clothes, blue and red shirts, etc.