(Entered in paper journal at 11:30 AM at Starbucks on 43rd Street and 3rd Avenue in Manhattan.)
Dream 1
I sat in some small, dumpy, fenced area in front of a dumpy-looking, small, white house. It was a sunny, warm, slightly humid day. I was working with my NYC Americorps crew. My crew mate DF sat by a garbage can.
SC, who was thin, mottle-faced, and scraggly-haired, walked out of the house. He was arguing with a woman who was a bit taller than I, thin, with coppery-tan skin and short, tight, mannish, coppery-red hair. SC had said something to offend the woman's femininity because he hadn't wanted to do a job he felt was demeaning. The two argued violently.
I stood up and got between them, sticking my right arm in their way. They both seemed now at least six inches taller than I. I said to them, a little impatiently, "Okay. I know you've both offended each other. And I, even I, wish you would each quit saying the things I feel you know get the other person offended.
"And if you want to fight each other, fine. Or argue, that's fine. But can you please not stress out all of us at work by going on this way at work? Are your problems really that great that you can't get over them for these few hours each day?"
They got a little mad at me but then walked into the fenced-off area to work. I did, too.
A few moments later I turned to look at DF, who still sat by the garbage can. I knelt by him. He was silently crying. He said, "I'm so tired of you people putting me through this all the time."
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