. . . . in which i am wandering around an old school building, looking for a piano. there used to be one here before. i have to crawl into this tight space through this door. i am going round a long corridor, clockwise. there is a black gentleman who i seem to know. he points to a poster showing different people at different stages of development. he asks me which experiences more pain. suspecting a trick question, i point to the enlightened ones at the top. i am wrong, and try to reason about it. he is now gone, i’m outside and looking for him. there is a patch of grass that two women are tending. i understand that it is a garden i started but have not kept up with. the mint has overgrown, but it is still beautiful. one of them asks if they may take ownership, and i encourage them to. i go looking for the package i have set down. i remember holding the felt from the bottom of a chair in my hands. i left with the image of alan singing to me, just his head, as if i am watching a music video, the colors are contrasty, very blue and red, and alan has two mouths, upper and lower. he sings from the lower one. he is conveying something spiritual to me, as i listen to the accompaniment, which reminds me now of stairway.

i am . . . petting george, stroking his big round striped belly, so fluffy as he writhes on the ground, the other cats circling, more aloof, george is the friendly cat, smooshes his face, such a precious moment, craving cats, great comforters, like gretel when grandma died, no cats after gretel followed . . . a special relationship, understanding, afforded just a few moments here, hoping the girls will take their time, no rush to get to school, i wish someone there would be this friendly with me, why is it just george? why are people so mean and selfish? i guess george wants my love, but that is OK he means no harm, what if a kid was like this? new friend . . . i hope you will be here tomorrow, and the day after, do you know how happy you make me . . . .

trying to look after myself
as you would an injured bird . . . .
does it need food? water?
is it going to make it?
    should i take it to the doctor?

. . . . in which i’m at the airport with my partner and we get randomly selected to take part in an exercise . . . we are in a large open space, roughly square, at one side of it, talking to an airline representative, who stands behind a desk . . . the opposite wall is one large window that looks out onto other concrete structures . . . i feel that we are in danger, but the overall tone is one of calm . . . it becomes apparent that the exercise is some kind of shooting, which takes place out of sight further along the building in a corridor . . . i duck behind the desk, but it is over quickly . . . i understand that the exercise was to neutralize some hostile group . . . i’m relieved that it is over, but the representative tells me that we must now proceed to another part of the airport to repeat the exercise in another large square open space, which i now understand is a ‘ghostery’ . . . it seems however that the original exercise has gone wrong . . . bullets start flying in from the side, through the giant window, though no one is visible . . . i feel that it must be over . . . .

*. . . . in which i am at home when a man in a gorilla suit rings the doorbell . . . i can see them through the clear glass of the door . . . i am busy doing something, perhaps on the phone to a friend, but i try to indicate that i want them to go away by gesturing . . . he does so, but returns shortly . . . he has something for me . . . i dismiss him again, but he keeps coming back . . . i become afraid and try to yell at him to go away, as i seem to remember this happening before as a child in a clairvoyant dream, but i am unable to make the sounds, as if paralyzed, and he persists . . . my fear intensifies and i am eventually able to wrest myself by shouting out, unintelligibly, go away! go away! . . . *

i am . . . waiting, annoyed, trying not to get in the way, bored, reading the advertisements, wishing i could sit down, on that chair . . . that’s not for children . . . wishing she would hurry up, wondering what they are talking about, what do the adults talk about, women talk gossip, are you really interested? . . . i’m embarrassed and ashamed, why aren’t you talking to me, you seem like a nice mum and i am a cute and shy little boy in stupid shoes . . . i thought women loved me but not so much lately . . . mother demands all the attention . . . can’t figure out our relationship, if our mums know each other, are lindsey and i friends? i don’t think so but i wish you were . . . why do all the girls wear the same dress? your mum’s like a bigger you, she is a younger mum, short just like you, little red nose . . . .

. . . . in which i am in the mystery hotel again. i am taking one of many elevators, but it doesn’t seem to go to where i need it. it is nighttime, dark with neon pink/purple lights. i get off on some floor, with the intention of walking to another elevator or set of stairs that will take me where i am headed. i have a vague recollection of losing the boundary between the hallway and the rooms, and i end up in someone else’s room. i try to make clear that it was a mistake and go on my way . . . it is clear that i am not on the ground floor, but now i open a door and, inexplicably, i am outside, on firm ground, and it is daytime. ahead of me is a field of grass, overgrown, and on an incline extending away from me. a little way up is a section that seems to be defined as a rectangle, though it’s not clear what the boundary is. there are two girls in this field - one of which i recognize as amber, the other is less distinct, and i do not recognize her as anyone. they are both riding lawnmowers, though they don’t appear to be the kind that you ride on. they are as if racing, anticlockwise, on a circuit that describes roughly the perimeter of the rectangle. the grass is short and bare where they have ridden, but it is long and wild in the middle. though it is a race, neither seems to hold the lead decisively. i begin to have the vague sense that the lawnmower is also a typewriter. i understand now that the activity i am witnessing - in spite of all available evidence - is writing. writing is the thing they are doing and all the other things are just details.

. . . . in which i observe luna modeling for what i understand is a music video. the setting is underground, in a tunnel, with vague overtones of the london underground. it is dark and i am unaware of anyone else in particular, though i understand that a film crew is present. luna is dressed in white and has a white veil. her face is visible through the veil, but expressionless throughout. i am aware that she is moving, yet whenever i observe her she is completely still, lifeless. she just appears to be in one pose over here, then over there. the poses are rigid and triangular . . . i understand that luna is unhappy and wants to escape, and that she has disappeared far away into the system of interconnecting tunnels. i am however able to track/follow her. i emerge, far away, as if through a manhole, in the desert, and this is where she is now. there is the impression that she has been here for some time ahead of me. there are rocks and plants suggestive of joshua tree. it is by contrast hot and colourful, more vibrant than the desert would normally be. nonetheless there is a pool of water, perhaps a spring, and luna is drinking the water. i understand that the water has a special quality, and it is giving her a vision. i feel invited to partake, and feel a sense of wellness from the intensity of the light and colours, the clandestine nature of where we are, as if she has taken me to a secret place, and for the vision which i am about to receive, the promise of self-discovery and healing.

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