I read this article:  http://www.guardian.co.uk.lifeandstyle/2010/jul/24/assisted-suicide-dignatas-friends-story

This reminds me of a nightmare I had recently:

My family was all together in a place that looked like a large movie theater lobby/high school. Basically large hallways and double doors going into rooms.

We were all there, and a woman walked up to my Dad and said it was time. My Dad said something odd, like "Well, I guess I might as well get going!" and he walked into this large door with the woman. We waited maybe 15 minutes or something, when a large sign above the door lit up with my father's name. And my Mom was just like, "Ok, let's go!" and we left.

Walking out, there was a huge rush of people going in. It was like the airport or something, you know? Just a huge rush of people coming and going.

I woke up freaking out, crying.

FYI: My Dad's alive and well.

'Take a look,' my husband says. 'A shooting star.'

I see the flash in the sky from our bedroom window, not one but several, each following the other, and soon coalescing to form a line of white. It is as if someone were developing movies in the night sky.

I cannot sleep and continue to watch the sky through half closed Venetian blinds.

'There's something wrong here,' my husband says.

I see this too. The images have taken on a hectoring quality and there is a voice over above us to announce the arrival of the invaders. Nazi's perhaps.

But these dictators are not the earthly types I imagine. They have come from a different dimension and they intend to teach us down here on earth a few lessons about how badly we have behaved towards one another.

In the beginning there was some place like Leeds but the barrier was great when we had to

Go around or under the walls because int he wayt he rocks are wide and flat now in my dream they were also tall and flat. I might have been a mermaid with one other person swimming across and there might have been someone swimming a little further behind and after us. Then it turned into the last night on earth and a group of us were huddled because the great authority that would be (a mixture of Stalin and my old camp director, Nancy) wanted us to seem asleep. One nice German lady, who was also me, but different from me because she had big hips, a long white skirt and short brown hair and a very authoritative gait, went right up to the huddle of us, looked in the middle and said, when we accused her of not lying down dead asleep, I'm ust buying some jam. And at that moment we all started buying some jam. She said, I love jam. The police said it was okay. Somehow jam became a neat (neat and sticky) evasion of the law.
I've forgotten a bit. There was this other woman different from me. Another foreign country. She was a blind mother and I dreamt her Spanish—a pathetic seeming Almodovar woman. She had a son and a tiny car that was open and bent. The car had no doors and at the same time they were doors concaving. In the same way that I was the German woman once who had laid down with her jams, I was also simultaneously this blind mother. I knew I was blind but nothing in my vision had changed. I was only frightened with the awareness that I was blind. I continued to drive my son as the woman had done. I trembled with fear. Interesting to continue with dream vision. I suppose blind people dream images. So I was seeing all and trembling all with the knowledge that I was blind. But nothing was hidden from me.
My dream continued and I continued blind with it. Somehow I was not with a son any longer but an old friend of mind. We were discussing personal matters having to do with our relationship. Meanwhile we were being ushered around by the Nancy Goldberg powers. At one distinct point we were at the top of a shiny white modern construction. It felt at first to be the top of an escalator in a fancy new museum. In my dream there was no museum really, this was some sort of checkpoint out of the Nancy domain. Everyone was struggling down this solid white block with blue glowing lights contraption. There was an escalator but it was not like an escalator—it had a much wider step and no traction. I was terrified because I was blind so I gripped onto the sides of the walls above it. I could see it everything but knowing I was blind and more handicapped I gripped. I couldn't all the way relate my blindness to my friend—she helped me here and there. We were disputing and I was finally making her smile when she asked me to talk about something in particular. She said, will you talk about your step-father and mother? In that moment I realized that the mad escalator had been installed by my mother as an art piece. I was dead dumb and blind before my friend's request but not all the way blind. I took a paper bag and a piece of charcoal and wrote the sentence. The sentence was not affirmative. The sentence was against speech. Being written. I wanted what was written and did not want, or need, to speak to her. I did need her help though because of the fearfulness I felt at being blind. I bid them farewell and there was some tears we shed .

My co-workers at the restaurant where I work have joined a soccer league.  The first  game  is a home game against a bunch of teenage Russians from  SE Portland.  The game  is being held in my parents living room in southern Idaho.  The Russians poke a little fun at our team  but are friendly enough as the game never really gets started.  It's when I  sing a little ditty that ends with a sobriquet sounding ever so slightly Ruski that the tension builds, & the Russians become enraged when I show them my self-published chapbooks, particularly at the pencil marks & scissor cut sections of the cover.

Last night I dreamed a man so old he was smooth like an infant. He was on a gurney in a turn of the century hospital. I was his nurse. He was waiting to die. He was waiting for his turn to die. There was another old man plugged to a machine all manner of tubes and hoses entering and exiting him and my patient was waiting for the other old man to be finished. He was calm and smiling. I kept pulling up my long white dress because tattoos were appearing on my legs. Lines of poetry were appearing on my thighs then a staff with notes wound its way around my calves. I was very excited to find the poetry and music. I could feel the tattoos slightly raised like newly born tattoos are.

I dreamed a buzzing sound loud who was mowing their lawn at 2 AM what fiend was sawing a hole into the earth and in my dream I looked out the window and my darling hemlock the tree that hides me from the world was completely and forever sheared was a foot tall stump and I was naked exposed my sheet on the floor my bedroom oven hot. I got up and wandered around my house drank some water went back to bed then dreamed a terrible dream of a woman killing her baby in a drive-through car wash. A toddler stood nearby screaming. The baby was in a car seat where the big slaps of heavy cloth come through soap everywhere the mother stabbing at the baby with a metal rod.

I woke in awe.

I'd been dreaming abt creating a piece out of my daily activities. I'd gatherd together a group of friends who were going to cross a bridge. we met so that I cd instruct them how to document the journey across the bridge & where we wd meet so that I cd collect that documentation for the work.

I woke glowing.

I was wandering the streets of a large, modern American city I did not recognize. The whole city was underground. The buildings and streets were terribly dirty and rundown, and dimly lit by a greenish, diffuse light. It was very quiet and there were no people around.

Entering a warehouse, I stumbled upon a weapons training session of the Ku Klux Klan. They were shooting at mannequins with various kinds of firearms, as well as a hunting bow. Their leader, who looked a bit like Miguel Ferrer, approached me to tell me that he was interested in my help. He wanted me to use my connections with indie rock musicians to try to get them involved with spreading the KKK's message. I was immediately skeptical, thinking that I wanted no part of this plan, and besides, no indie rock musician I knew would be interested.

As I waited patiently for him to finish his spiel, I thought about how I could diplomatically pretend to agree with part of his philosophy, and then politely bow out of helping. I was suddenly ashamed when I remembered what the KKK were about; I realized that since I agreed with no part of their philosophy at all, it could only be my habit of hypocrisy that would incline me to take this diplomatic tack. I said something noncommittal and left.

Back on the deserted street, I began to wonder where I was, what city I was in. As I considered the subterranean condition of the city and the character of its inhabitants, it dawned on me that I was in Hell, which then seemed manifestly obvious. I became intensely afraid and woke up.