Sunday, June 3, 2007

I'd gone "back home" to New Orleans to reconnect with childhood friends. In a red-walled room overlooking the ruins, Ted tells me the first girl I ever loved has become a recluse: "No one ever sees her anymore." The sky is dark, threatening rain, or worse. A flock of giant raptors gathers on one of the roofs across from us. Suddenly, one of them takes off and flies right at us. When it hits the window in front of us, we can clearly read the glyph on the side of its head, but we don't know what it means. We leave the window and enter another room. This one has iridescent blue walls and enigmatic objects arranged on the tops of chests of drawers. Ted says they are not there for us, but for some previous visitor. Then he cradles my head in the crook of his arm, presses a nerve on the side of my neck, and I wake up.