tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59608989342902504592024-03-04T23:10:13.521-05:00Annandale Dream GazettePoets' Blog of DreamsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger924125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-8946000773912884032019-06-20T18:00:00.002-04:002019-06-20T18:00:25.208-04:00I had a dream last night that I was in a car with Larry Eigner and Allen Ginsberg. Larry was driving. We drove over wooden slats in a muddy field and got stuck. Larry was extremely upset that he ruined Allen’s car. Allen didn’t care. And then Gregory Corso appeared and suddenly we were standing in a wooded area beside a rotting graveyard. The moon was so large it consumed half the sky, and it was light orange. An eerie orange. I fumbled with my phone to take a picture of it, and then I woke up.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-29620369667532002332019-06-04T18:09:00.002-04:002019-06-04T18:09:27.597-04:00Weird dream department: last night I dreamed I died and was promptly pressed into service in a kind of poet's community, everybody showing up from Bob Creeley to Charles Olson ("Big Charlie" he was called), Jack Spicer, Robert Duncan & many more. It turned out to be in a kind of bar where everyone was expecting to sing beer songs (Trinklied, the German tinkled in my ears) with unabashed & perpetual gusto. Everyone seemed to be wearing bearskin body-suits.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-46405385806239898032017-10-11T23:53:00.002-04:002017-10-11T23:53:37.123-04:00I dreamed me. In the dream I was who I am at the age I am searching for something I did not know what until I found myself as an infant with a white blanket drawn up to my shoulders, lying on my back, arms in the air wiggling my fingers at myself as I bent over myself, and we touched our finger tips, and I felt a peaceful joy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-41124473156176899052017-08-14T12:45:00.002-04:002017-08-14T12:45:46.742-04:00This morning I had a dream that seems to recur every few years, wherein I find that Frank didn't really die. This time he had moved to San Francisco. I was in the hospital or something and found him on facebook. I contacted him and told him I really needed him to come home. Then he was here. Very happy to see him, gave him a big hug. He looked twenty years older but well, and just like Frank. I felt very sad that he had missed the entire upbringing of our son, and I knew he was going to go back to San Francisco, to a life he had built without us.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-71310480143251875052017-05-20T09:00:00.001-04:002017-05-20T09:00:22.020-04:00I dreamed there was an Eileen Myles coloring book.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-52657526144203458702017-03-21T18:02:00.002-04:002017-03-21T18:02:43.622-04:00I dreamt the world was ending and everyone was frantically looking for
safety while I ran from office to office at Naropa to get signatures on
paperwork.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-6418777529233711112016-12-21T22:56:00.000-05:002016-12-21T22:56:27.377-05:00In a morning / before-waking <span class="il">dream</span>, I was on
stage at a small theater venue, like an art-house movie theater, a full
house for a poetry slam. I was to read from my collection “Bad Poetry
For James Franco”, and was giving my spiel / intro…that the writing of
these poems kept me from punching James Franco in the throat for his
seeming overall mission to make the world safe for the straight white
male by inserting himself into so many marginalized roles [such as,
photographically replicating Cindy Sherman in her iconic feminist body
of work “Untitled Film Stills 1977 - 80”, mimicking her poses, clothing
and locations though not shaving his own iconic facial hair — and
providing bad and patronizing poetry to accompany her own photos); by
playing two known homosexual poets on film, Ginsberg and Hart Crane;
playing a wigga gangster with gold front and cornrows in Harmony
Korine’s “Springbreakers”; pretty much lifting Kenneth Anger’s whole
film “Fireworks”, in which a young man sexually fantasizes about being
beaten up by a group of more macho boys; and his selfies project, and
his own panned poetry…why would he do all this? What compelled him to
make the world safe for the SWM?…etc…THEN he stands up from the seated
crowd and says to me, walking towards me in the aisle, “c’mon, I’m right
here…punch me” and I explain that oh, I don’t need to now as through
this poetry project I worked it out…and he is still walking, this time
onto the stage with me, “come on, punch me I’m Right Here.” And I
explain more that in writing about him, in his voice, I sort of got him,
all his need to get 7 MFAs and read poetry for MoMA…that it’s a thing
to do, because he can, it’s a new thing, a way to expand because he can,
and I get it and I don’t need to punch him anymore. And he says
“oh..”. And his shoulders relax. And he says “well now that I’m up
here, I realize you don’t have anyone to sign for the crowd during your
reading. I know ASL, American Sign Language, and would be happy to sign
for you.” So I said sure, great, have at! Thanks! And he stood on
the edge of the stage and signed with his hands as I read from my book.
Then I woke up.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-73652516810814098482016-12-21T22:53:00.002-05:002016-12-21T22:53:45.039-05:00<div class="MsoNormal">
I dreamed I was visiting with Trevor Moffat, the lead guitarist
of my first teenage rock band. I had agreed to plastic surgery in which we
would switch appearances entirely: faces, hair, etc. I was very sad about it,
but sure I must have agreed for some good reason which I couldn’t remember. At
different points in the dream, I also told various people I met that Trevor and
I had exchanged names. People still seemed to recognize me. <span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Early in the dream, I got out of Trevor’s car at his modernist house
and went to a Soviet pub. The place was full of brutish workers. I left my seat
to ask the indifferent server for some French fries, and when I got back, a guy
was sitting in my chair and had drank all my beer. I sat next to him, refusing
to be intimidated. His friend, a guy across the table started talking to me.
They were German. He was talking about people in northern British Columbia,
mostly holed up little cabins, and I mentioned that yes, I knew the man he
called The Master; I revealed that I knew his name to be Richard Teitelbaum. He
corrected my pronunciation, but accepted what I was saying. We discovered we
had other people in common. They were a little warmer to me after that.<span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
At a late point in the dream, I forgot a woman’s name who recognized
me even with Trevor’s face. I can’t remember if her name was Ruth or if that
was the name I incorrectly called her. At her house, I got a look at myself in
the mirror and who I actually looked like was Chris Batting (the lead guitarist
of my second band). Outside her place, the Fraser River was flooding ominously—almost
right up to her door. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-42067259796271567682016-11-04T08:41:00.001-04:002016-11-04T08:41:18.320-04:00I dreamed that the results of the election were in and we were all
gathered around in this bombed-out looking place with empty swimming
pools and we heard the results and we sat there, stunned, and then broke
into hysterical wailing, screaming and tears with relief. Hillary had
won.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-87287653510511835022016-11-02T12:28:00.001-04:002016-11-02T12:28:05.263-04:00<div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: garamond,serif; font-size: large;">
In
a pub with a group of friends. A romantic proximity with Kevin
(Thurston). Standing against a wall in the pub, faces close, laughing.
Someone reveals they need to blind me--someone other than Kevin, I
think. At first the man tries to explain why in the pub. I imagine
accessing all my other senses, what it would be like to be blind, the
possible claustrophobia or panic. Then there is strangely some appeal. I
am not as afraid as you would think. Outside, a van full of women, one
of whom is Lisa Gross, a college friend I haven't seen for 30 years. I
am obviously preoccupied and am in a hurry to leave. This reoffends the
college friend, and she disappears into the pub, as I apologetically
look at the remaining group of women. I begin to fly, albeit awkwardly
at first, to get away from the man that wishes to blind me. Then I am
flying full force, 20 feet above the ground. I stop in front of a
building, perhaps where Lee (Gough) lives as I am trying to get to her.
He has caught up with me, explains why I must be blinded. It makes
sense, and I wake.</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="font-family: garamond,serif; font-size: large;">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-52002899497880090482016-10-12T20:15:00.001-04:002016-10-12T20:15:52.333-04:00last night i dreamed that i gave birth to two babies. one was a regular
baby. the other was a kangaroo. i was a bit afraid of the kangaroo so i
nailed its front paw to the floor so that it wouldn't hop all over the
house. then i decided to tell the father that he was a father of both a
baby and a kangaroo somehow, even though we have not seen each other in
years. he was surprised and asked me not to tell anyone. he didn't want
his current wife who is pregnant to find out that she might give birth
to a kangaroo.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-85247725838256052872016-10-12T20:14:00.001-04:002016-10-12T20:14:58.402-04:00late last night near morning, I’m on a boat. tidy, motel-like room. a
tuxedo'd, Costanza-ish dude keeps poking his head in to tell me
“Trotsky is almost here! Trotsky is almost here!” then, a guy climbs in
thru the window, who is Trotsky, tho he looks nothing like Trotsky, and
I’m very excited to see him, because we’re old, dear friends. I kiss him
on the forehead. he is exhausted and needs to lay down. I say in
russian, “dear Lev, it is so good to be here with you again.” he<span class="text_exposed_show"> lays down and doesn’t say much.</span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
but wait, I think, it’s 2016. it can’t be Trotsky. so why’d I call him
Lev? it’s a pun about art, I decide. “did you like the joke about art?” I
ask Trotsky. Trotsky answers, “on a boat, everything one says is a joke
about art.” I decide this is true and Trotsky is great<br />
then I
realize that it can’t be a pun about art, because calling someone Lev
has absolutely no relationship to art. instead I tell him, “I call you
Lev because you are our lion!” (this makes more sense because the name
Lev, as in Trotsky, Tolstoy, or Schreiber, means “lion.”)<br />
he looks over at me and says, “I am the Other Trotsky.”<br />
then I wake up and see this! I believe this is as poorly as it is
possible for the human mouth to produce the sounds of french. I believe
Trotsky may have been a wooden figurine who sat too near a xmas tree
& was accidentally turned alive by magic.<br />
& most of all, I eagerly anticipate meeting the Other Trotsky, may his Other Revolution come soon.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-66582421497283937432016-08-13T21:02:00.001-04:002016-08-13T21:02:04.417-04:00I dreamed last night that Donald Trump kidnapped me to work for his
campaign ("Because you watch a lot of C-Span," he said) and kept trying
to win me over with gigantic — I mean, huge — cookies and shots of
liquor. I woke up feeling rattled.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-75412873307305429042016-06-26T08:59:00.001-04:002016-06-26T08:59:25.810-04:00Strange dream this morning. In the dream Robin and I were going to
visit my dad but when we got there my dad wasn't there and it wasn't his
place. The compound was a beehive of activity, lotsa country yeehaws
and rednecks wandering around. I asked someone where we were and they
named a county that was no where near my dad's house and then informed
me that they were all vampires. Robin said she was fascinated by
vampires and sat down to have a drink with a couple of them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-69770132195908579242016-06-26T08:44:00.001-04:002016-06-26T08:44:41.873-04:00Dreamed last night that I met Kanye West at a poetry program, and he
fell instantly in love with me. I kept trying to get away, told him I
was older than I looked, I wasn't interested, but he would not be
dissuaded.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-184266405092267032016-04-26T08:44:00.001-04:002016-04-26T08:44:35.106-04:00<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
dreamt that we were driving on a highway in Massachusetts, and there
was an accident. We ended up abandoning our car and somehow
commandeering an empty yellow cab, which we drove all the way home,
several hours to the south. Then, we were getting ready to go to my
sister-in-law Maude Kent’s in Philadelphia, and realized we couldn’t
take the cab. What were we going to do with it? I thought of driving
the cab to a street I remembered from childhood near the Garden State
Parkway in East Orange, N.J., and ditching it, but that could backfire,
and we wouldn’t have a car. I also thought about our abandoned car in
Massachusetts and figured no one would trace it to us. How would I join
up with Louisa and the kids in Philadelphia? Maybe instead of
commandeering the cab, we should have stayed with our car and arranged
for it to be fixed. Sure, it would have set us back a few hours, but we
wouldn’t have all these problems now.</span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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*</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
dreamt that I was walking with a friend on the sidewalk and we passed a
driveway, bordered with pillars, that led to a shady estate. The place
was very similar to the corner of Ralston Ave. and Grove Rd. in South
Orange, N.J., near my friend Mark Woldin’s childhood house, except there
wasn’t a driveway there; the driveway for the old Board of Education
building was closer to South Orange Ave. As we crossed the gravel
driveway, I perceived someone in the shade, a man. He pointed a handgun
at me and looked like he was about to fire. Terrified, I turned and
tried to run around the corner. Two shots rang out. I felt both hit
me, in the right shoulder. I went down. I lay flat on my back. It
felt very natural. I didn’t feel any pain. My friend ran away around
the corner. I suddenly worried the gunman would walk up and shoot me in
the head execution-style. I thought about trying to get up and run
away. But my body quickly communicated that that was unthinkable. I
had been flattened by the wounds. I just had to lie there and hope for
the best.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
dreamt that after a college class broke up, I wandered through
underground hallways in a dorm. I had to go to the bathroom. I entered
the room of a woman student, who said I could use her bathroom. Sadly,
the bathroom door wouldn’t completely close, partly because of a
laundry basket. When I came out, her boyfriend was there, sitting on the
floor. He was older than us, with gray hair. I noticed a leather
pouch near him, which I understood contained some marijuana. There was
something sensuous about the pouch. Was it doe leather? Suede
leather? There might have been a lighter lying next to it, creating a
kind of still life on the bland carpet. The young woman got up off her
bed, stood there for a moment in her bright, flowing clothes, and then
headed off to class. I sat down to get high with the guy. We talked.
He said his synagogue was half an hour away (from either Harvard or
Brown, it wasn’t clear which campus we were on). Was he from Rhode
Island? I asked. No, he was from “Stafford Fuckwad,” which I instantly
understood to be Stafford Springs, Conn., where my father was jailed
overnight as a law student in the late 1930s. I was going to mention
that, but I don’t think I did. He seemed to hear it telepathically. We
talked about how the cops in Connecticut were unbelievably bad. I said
that they should be prosecuted under the RICO statute. "The whole
Justice Department should be considered a Racketeer, Racketeer,
Racketeer Influenced Cuh Cuh," I stuttered. I couldn't get the right
phrase out: Racketeer Influenced Corrupt Organization.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-57565751549673287362016-04-09T11:39:00.001-04:002016-04-09T11:39:35.616-04:00This morning I had a wild, elaborate dream that Bernie Sanders came to
Dreamtime Village. I was showing him some of the handmade music
instruments we had made years ago and he picked up an electric bass and
started playing a really funky slap bass groove. The dream then cuts to
me showing him proudly my newly published Samsara Congeries and he
immediately finds a typo and then launches into a very studied critique
of experimental writing, grinning all the while.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-21820568749282800502016-03-29T14:44:00.000-04:002016-03-29T14:44:35.611-04:00
<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
A Stop Along the Milky Way for Some Tiramisu</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To follow the path of combusting stars </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from sky</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to the very world</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that receives the starlight</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
requires a stop along the Milky Way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I chance this sojourn</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
not knowing how it will figure</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in the overall promise</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
or composition of the world</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
replete with errors,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
tropes, and falsifications. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the cold night that has been chosen </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for its resplendence,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my words and the combusting stars </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
wander from their accustomed place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I taste the sweet lift-me-up</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that helps to fashion a fortunate life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blessed is that raw slumber</div>
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to which a dream is affixed.</div>
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Calamity Control</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Without great cause</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to whimper and whine,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am content now to daydream,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
looking out at the unadorned sky,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
re-living how a flowerpot fell </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from a brownstone’s windowsill</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the moment I passed by</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on customary city walk from here to there.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thud was not as great </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
as when the plastic bottle of Evian</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
fell in the same fashion, different day,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
just missing me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I envisioned country wicker.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Find a porch with some curvature</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to receive the sun’s benediction.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Expect that rain</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
will be the only thing falling —</div>
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and the only intrusion,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
some handsome deer, nibbling.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-64243261248756420642016-03-22T17:33:00.001-04:002016-03-22T17:33:12.133-04:00My dream: At AWP, I dropped my phone on a flight of marble steps and it
shattered. I first thought "Oh, I won't bother to get it fixed." Then I
thought: "Wait! It's my brain! I have to get it fixed!"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-25119209378410189162016-02-12T07:01:00.001-05:002016-02-12T07:01:53.507-05:00<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
dreamt that Sam Truitt and I accompanied my late mother and stepfather to a
theatrical event. We walked up to the marquee in a small town and picked up
our tickets. As we walked away in the afternoon light, cars were pouring
into the town, including many limos, with people who wanted to see the show.
It seemed strange that people were arriving so early. It was
slightly dangerous to cross the main street, which made a big turn coming into
town. We went into a supermarket, where Mom and Eli were buying some
things. I told them to get a pack of cigarettes. When they emptied
their bag at the cash register, two packs of cigarettes spilled out.
I hadn’t asked for two packs. And what brand were they? After the
purchase, we sat at a table going through the purchases. Mom was holding
the theater tickets in one hand while she went through the items, and that
created a coordination problem for her. Eli pressed her to go through the
items more quickly. Mom turned to Eli and said, “I can’t do it so
fast,” but what she was really saying was, “Please don’t be hard on me,
especially in front of them.”</span></div>
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*</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
dreamt that I was giving a poetry reading, going second.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was in a big room, below street
level.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was trying to decide whether to
read the introduction to </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">Fleeting
Memories</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> or to </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">Inner Voices Heard
Before Sleep</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I made a decision, but
then a woman I respected persuaded me not to carry it out.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">Meanwhile, there was a delay between the
first reader and me.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">The MC was
addressing a bunch of unnecessary questions from someone.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I looked around the room.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">It had thinned considerably in the
interim.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">Was Clark Coolidge still
there?</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I wanted him to hear me.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">My work buddy Rob Rossi was standing near the
MC.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I walked up to him.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">He asked how things were going.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I said, “Not great.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then I reached out and touched him on the arm
and gave him a big smile.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">For some
reason, I believed touching him on the arm would make me feel better, and it
did.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I even noticed a few people coming
down the ramp into the room.</span></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
*</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
dreamt that I was talking to my college roommate Rick Spiers, a longtime
follower of the late H.L. “Doc” Humes, who was obsessed with government
surveillance in
the 1970s. Then, descending into the subway, I heard my name called
over the loudspeaker, which was very disturbing. I entered a waiting
room
that in actuality was a surveillance center. The seats flashed your
name on them as you walked past. They must have electronically picked
up
information from you as you passed. There was also a banner over the
surveillance center, saying NO PORN, part of a new campaign by Mayor
Bloomberg.
I watched people who were inside the glass walls of a big
department store. The people looked so real. I
noticed that many of them, both the stylish and the dowdy, were
wearing pale blue shirts and sweaters. I looked from person to
person, taking in the colors of their clothes. It filled me with
wonder. Then, I walked along a path in a large urban park, behind a
girl dancer and her boyfriend, both of whom were diminutive.
A guy who looked like the Journal's Bill Power was playing baseball
nearby. “That must keep him fit,” I thought. My daughter
Charlotte walked
up to me, wondering if it was too late to phone in a correction to an
article in
the long-defunct </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">Newark Evening News</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">.
She held a piece of paper with some dirt or string on it that contained the
correction.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-54300831890508599732016-01-19T18:15:00.001-05:002016-01-19T18:15:26.952-05:00Last night I dreamed that Trump was elected President and I joined a
citizen militia whose goal was to hide and care for illegal immigrants. I
had a gun and everything, and we were hiding people away in little
houses in the middle of the woods. In the dream I was like, wow, I never
thought this day would come.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-32254751628377114142016-01-11T00:58:00.001-05:002016-01-11T00:58:48.014-05:00In my dream, Barack Obama (who was not president, but a scientist) told me to apply for an NEA.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-76688326254545767252015-12-30T00:09:00.000-05:002015-12-30T00:09:19.456-05:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Like Deer</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am jogging with George.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are running along a country lane. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We don’t talk. He is slightly </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ahead. There is a hedge </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on the left. I feel like he wants </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to go that way. I might want </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to go that way, too. He turns </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
left, right into and through</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the hedge, which is velvety</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and dense like a dream. Maybe </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
it will work for me. I turn. It is </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
thick and sticks to me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
like flesh. I emerge slowly, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
can barely move, have hedge </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
all over me like caterpillar </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
fur or armor or a new layer </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of me. George is moving well ahead </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
up a path between the lawns </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of two old properties. He is </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
nearing the trees. With effort </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pull off a few clumps. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My stride and breathing loosen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I catch up and we run </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
blithely through the woods.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br clear="all" />
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her Embrace</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Went to the old apartment on Bedford.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was gutted on the inside.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walls torn out. New beams put in</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in the basement. I used the old keys. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She comes in. I say something. She runs away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to explain myself to myself </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and leave. Across the street is the diner</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
everyone goes to. I am sure to see </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the people I met earlier there. Or is it </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a cemetery? I come to the town square </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and start driving around it. The huge trees </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on the green hang over the road.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She is on the green. I see her from </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the side. She is on her way, striding even, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
under the trees. This time when I go</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
around the square the car is out of control, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
starts to slide off the road into the dark,</div>
snow-covered arms of the trees.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-40790793830884787562015-12-10T07:18:00.001-05:002015-12-10T07:18:49.158-05:00<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">I dreamt that I entered a large living
room where many of my relatives were sitting.
</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">My cousin Eve Lyman told me that her late father, Uncle Abe Chayes, was
in an adjacent room, and that I should go and talk with him.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">I entered the room, a very large room with a
cathedral ceiling.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">Uncle Abe was
supposedly sitting on the couch in the middle of the room.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">But it wasn’t Uncle Abe.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">It was my long-dead father.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">I asked Dad a question, and he said that the
key to politics in this town was bowling.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">
</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">If you could bowl high numbers in the bowling league (a fact that I had
slightly forgotten about Dad), people would do anything for you.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">Dad started to make a further point and
stopped mid-sentence, like a jukebox that had run out of money.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">He wasn’t allowed to continue, or wasn't able to
continue.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">It was very disturbing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
dreamt that I had blown off my courses
for most of a semester. I was walking
around the upper floors of a huge high school looking for my classes.
There was something Victorian or Gothic or
both about the building. I poked my head
into a cavernous math classroom. I
couldn’t figure out where the class was in the textbook. I couldn’t
follow anything. I continued down a hall and turned a corner,
and saw another one of my classes through a glass wall. I entered.
But they were having a little reception, drinks and pastries, and I had
no real right to join them, and it wouldn’t help me catch up from being
so far
behind. I went looking for another
class. It was supposed to be on the top
floor as well, but you couldn’t access that area from where I was. I
took an elevator down to the first
floor. Looking for a way to get to the other
part of the top floor, I wandered into two first-floor rooms, which were
actually art galleries and apartments belonging to two young men. It
was surprising to find apartments in the
school. I stepped outside in front of
the school, which looked like the front of my old high school, Columbia
High
School in Maplewood, N.J. I looked up at
the roof to see if I could figure out where this other classroom was.
Indeed, there were these glassed-in sections
that bloomed on parts of the roof. Now,
I had to figure out where the elevator was that would get me to the
correct
glassed-in section.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
*</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
dreamt that we were leaving a vacation
spot in Maine where we had shared a house with another family. Their
baby was sleeping in the big back
room. Someone had awakened it. Maybe me.
And the mother had puts notes all over the place, warning people not to
wake the baby. What should we do today
with the little time we had left? Where
hadn’t we gone? Schoodic Point. The rocky coast right nearby. We
decided on the rocky coast. Before that, we stopped at an ancient
church. As we left, someone wondered if the
church’s ancient objects would be distributed to the other German
churches in
town, where they had been originally located.
I said this church had a special status and could keep all the objects.
A local sitting near the exit agreed. We
both agreed it was nice the church was so ancient, though I added it
would be
better if it were even more ancient, truly ancient, say, built in 600
A.D. I crowded into the other family’s car, which
was parked very near a red car. As our
friend gunned out of the parking lot, he scraped the red car. He wasn’t
aware of it, but I could see the
people in that car were. The car
followed us, making a big turn on someone’s lawn. The car turned into a
frightening power-company
or phone-company vehicle. It could do a
lot of damage to us. But it headed down
a street with low overhanging wires, which it could never get through.
We ultimately parked somewhere and I cleaned
all of our stuff out of the back of their car.
They were heading back to Cambridge,
even though it had snowed a lot there.
Before they left, I ran back to the car and shook the guy’s hand and
said, “Great spending time with you, let’s do it again.” I was glad I
hadn’t forgotten to do that.</span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5960898934290250459.post-64959499738171702922015-11-16T22:27:00.000-05:002015-11-16T22:27:17.182-05:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
dreamt I was walking on a residential
city street late at night, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. A police
car suddenly pulled up next to
me. Even though it wasn’t pot, I chucked
the cig, so there wouldn’t be an appearance of impropriety. The
policeman emerged covered from head to
toe in high-tech armor, especially his head.
He looked like a gigantic insect or alien. I gasped in fear. He
reached for his gun and said, “What?” “You frightened me,” I said. He
took me to a mobile outdoor police station,
basically a vehicle with an open trunk.
Several other perps waited there to pay fines and fill out
paperwork. I only had to fill out
paperwork. There was no fine for me,
which was slightly surprising, but seemed right, since I hadn’t done
anything
wrong. As I was leaving, the cops asked
if I had seen much tennis lately, which was also slightly surprising. I
told them very cheerfully that I had played a
lot of tennis and hoped to play more. Then I walked away into the late,
late
night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I dreamt I was sitting next to an
Italian guy on a bench in Venice. We started talking to each other in Italian
about Italian poetry, going through all the great names. I mentioned Giovanni Pascoli, to his delight,
then Guido Gozzano. Then, we turned to Eugenio
Montale. He said that late in life
Montale had frequented places like this.
He pointed to a twisting covered passageway with an outdoor restaurant
by the entrance. “Montale would eat a
hamburger at a place like that.” I
decided to eat there. A waitress came up
to me. We spoke Italian. I struggled to communicate with her in exactly
the same way that I would struggle to communicate with someone in Italian if I were
awake, making the same language decisions, the same compromises to communicate
something. I ordered a hamburger, but
then was surprised when a waiter brought a bowl of soup, which didn’t have much
soup in it, but was “all crackers.” I hoped
it didn’t cost much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">I dreamt I was visiting my mother, who
died four months ago. She was dying in a
big bedroom upstairs in a suburban house. I was very upset, thinking she
was about to die, but then she seemed a little better. I went from there
to a Camp Kennebec reunion at a party place. Not connecting with the people
well, I wandered into another room, downstairs,
that I thought was part of the same party. But the kids were really
young, the boys short. It must have been a bar mitzvah party. I
walked out of the catering place. On the way down the long driveway, I
encountered my friend Peter Saenger. I walked with him back into the catering
place. Inside, I noticed a program for a classical-music concert that
would be taking place shortly. It was an amazing program, with many
pieces. Sadly, for me, it was sold out. Peter Saenger had a ticket
and went inside. I picked up the program, thinking that if I saved it, I would
remember to go to the concert next year. I wandered into a gift
shop. It occurred to me that I would wind up putting the program
somewhere and forgetting it by the time the concert came around next
year. Maybe I should just throw the program away. As I walked out
of the gift shop without buying anything, I worried they would think the
program in my hand was something that I hadn't paid for, but no one bothered
me.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0