. . . . in which i am wandering around an outdoor performance space with my bicycle, looking for a place to sit. the options all resemble narrow, diagonally slanted car parking spaces. i am aware of the cumbersomeness of my bike and, as i look around i continue to narrowly miss opportunities as the spaces fill around me. i was too polite to claim the first one. i see ian who announces that sophie is coming with her hair in a bixby roll. and she does . . . before long i find myself on a train to mythical scotland, all out of proportion . . . the line between the map and reality indistinct . . . .

. . . . 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 . . . .

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