(4/5/05) beethoven coffee

(Entered in paper journal at 5:40 AM at home in Harlem.)

Dream 1

I was in a room with a right angle of chairs and a coffee table filled, on top and in little shelves which were on bottom, with magazines. A female friend had told me or was telling me that it was okay for me to get dressed up as a woman for the present gathering of folks. I was now dressed in a white dress with floral prints.

I grabbed some magazine, apparently a women's fashion special, and I sat down to flip through some pages. As I looked through the magazine I could hear a man or woman talking to me just behind my left or right shoulder. Whatever was said made me nervous about what the presently arriving folks would think of my attire. But I kept remembering the female friend telling me it was okay.

Whenever I looked down at my body I saw how feminine it was. But that didn't even register. I worried that since I couldn't shave (in waking life I couldn't shave my face on a regular basis because I had really bad acne, which shaving only made worse) my face was still hairy and that I looked like a gross pervert.

I had flipped through the magazine and found only a couple fashion articles, which were of only minor interest. I think I had been looking for a glamorous woman whom I could visualize, with a glimmer of hope that I could change myself through that visualization.

But, flipping through the pages again as I walked the magazine back to the coffee table, I saw that the articles were both about trendy, little casual jean and corduroy and hoodie outfits young girls could wear to impress young boys and still feel tomboyish for themselves.

Some people had arrived, but I didn't pay them much notice. I was flipping through the rest of the magazine, which was now a lot like a men's magazine, with a bunch of inflated-intellectual-ego stories.

One the articles was an article co-written by some staff writer and Beethoven. I wondered how this could be. Either one part was just a passage from Beethoven and the rest was the staff writer, or else the article was set up using quotes and passages of Beethoven's interspersed with the staff writer's writings. The article was only one page long. There was a watercolor portrait of Beethoven with a huge head.

It seemed like the first part of the article used the "interspersed" method and the second part was Beethoven quotes. The quotes were set up as jokes. The only one I "read" was one that ended, "It's a term for making sure you're 'zipped up' when you're standing in front of that cute cashier at the grocery store." I tried to figure out how Beethoven knew about grocery stores.

Now I was in what looked like a haunting version of a hospital cafeteria cashier line. But the place was apparently a coffee shop. A young woman rang up a small, deli-style and capless coffee, a Styrofoam box of food, and something else, all on a brown tray, for an old, rich woman. The young woman acted nice though all the while the old woman was rude.

When the young woman passed the tray to the old woman, who had in a rush passed just out of reach along the silver tray-counter, and said, "Have a nice day," the old woman awkwardly fumbled at the coffee and spilled a bit of it.

I was now in the old woman's body. I could tell there was a huge, gelling lump of sugar at the bottom of the cup. I saw everything as if I were watching an overexposed image. "I" now apologized to the girl for "my" rudeness. My hand and a little bit of my tray were sloppy with lukewarm coffee.
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"I" was now "myself." To the girl, as if I had watched the previous transaction, I said something like, "Wow, she was sure grumpy. She needs something to calm her nerves. Maybe coffee's not the right thing for her."

Now my sight was "jump-cut" to me carrying my own cup of coffee away. A narrating voice said, "Yes, coffee is harmful -- to your body especially, causing many nervous difficulties, including paranoia, insomnia, and Islam."

(11/5/09) good impressions aren't worthwhile

(Entered in dream journal at 7:30 AM at Sit & Wonder cafe in Brooklyn.)

Dream #1

I was somewhere indeterminate, hearing a young man telling me, as if we were speaking on the phone, that he would meet me for our interview at XXXXX. I knew I was going to interview for either a room or an apartment. The young man had told me to meet him near the room. He had also told me some of the difficulties I might have have living there: something to do with the shower or the kitchen.

I was now in the building. The building was a square, with a lot of open space in the center, like and atrium or a lobby, and all the rooms along the walls. There was a half-ceiling over the floor just in front of the rooms, like a second-story balcony ran along the walls. There were squarish, cheapish columns spaced somewhat closely at the edges of the balcony. In the center of the "atrium" was a seating area, with comfortable chairs, soft, with fake leather upholstery, sat around a square or rectangular rug.

I continued to hear the conversation between me and the young man for a little while longer. I might have looked into a room with a slightly open door, looking into dimness, possibly seeing a bed.

I then pulled out a book (from my bag?), sat in one of the nice chairs, and started to read. The book seemed to have and not to have a cover. The cover looked like the first edition cover of Philip K. Dick's The Man in the High Castle. The book was a paperback, about the size and thickness of an old Stephen King novel, like Christine. I thumbed through some of the pages.

At some point I looked back over my right shoulder and saw one or two rooms with open doors. The lights were on in both rooms, which were in the corner. I knew one of these rooms was the young man's room.

I hoped the young man would be impressed that I was reading this book, which was thick and slightly difficult. But then I remembered that this book was also thought of as pulp, which some people felt wasn't intellectually worthwhile. I knew I had to make a positive personal impression, since my history wasn't the most positive the young man would encounter.

Looking into the rooms, I saw a couple beds in each room, as well as cubicle-like room dividers. It looked like each room may actually have held more than two beds. The beds had no blankets. The sheets on the bed were dull blue, a shade darker and duller than surgeon's scrubs.

I thought, Well -- wasn't I moving into a room by myself? Wasn't that the good deal, in spite of the kitchen and bathroom not being great? I thought, Is the young man still living here, and that's why I have to make a good impression? Because we'll be living in the same room?

I tried to figure how many people lived in each room, and I tried to figure whether what I would pay would be a good deal after all, if more than two people lived in the room. I didn't think it was a good deal. I vaguely remembered the price, and I realized it wasn't much lower than what I'd been paying for my apartment. To pay this much to live in a room full of people didn't seem right.

I felt nervous. Before now, I'd thought I'd be able to save some money by living here. Now I realized that, even if this place had been a good deal, I still wouldn't be saving much money. Nevertheless, I still felt like I needed to make a good impression, so I could get into this place.

I might have seen my old landlord from a rented room I'd lived in in Brooklyn a few years back. I then also realized that I didn't have a job. I wondered how I'd convince the young man that I was a good candidate for this room despite the fact that I didn't have a job.