Mar. 29th, 2017

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Dreamed I was in a subway station, a horribly filthy and antiquated subway station, trash all over the place – some of it intriguing trash except it was all so filthy. I began picking through it anyway because garbage and treasures… You never know.

I was using that old blue bike pannier as a purse. It was the one with the clear top for maps that I used on my many biking expeditions through Europe in the 70s and 80s.

Ben was my companion, and when I noticed he hadn’t lit a cigarette in the entire time we’d been together, I congratulated him.

“Were you going to tell me you had stopped smoking?” I asked.

“I was going to let you notice for yourself,” he said.

I’d put down the blue bike pannier when I started treasure hunting. But now I couldn’t find it. Ben was impatient – we were supposed to be somewhere; we were already late.

“I’ll see you when you find it,” he said and ran up the stairs from the station.

I knew that once you left the station, it was almost impossible to come back. Most of the exits were permanently closed; the ones that were open were up very steep, wet flights of stairs that teetered over views of a stormy ocean – the station served a part of Brooklyn I had never heard of that was a maritime village on a peninsula thrust into the deepest part of the Atlantic ocean.

I searched and searched for the blue pannier, but I could not find it. No one had entered the station while Ben and I were there; still, I couldn’t rule out theft. I thought it was more likely a willful pattern blindness, though: Since the time I was very young, I’ve always had a problem with not seeing things I’m specifically looking for, even when they’re right in front of me.

I found a lot of other purses and baggage, abandoned and dank, in the underground station, and considered stealing one of those. But they didn’t have my specific ID. I needed to be me, right?

Finally, I gave up looking. It was going to be a complete and utter drag dealing with the missing things in the pannier, but I was going to have to man up and deal with it.

Outside the station, I found myself on a busy intersection that was crowded with men dressed as women. They were not cross-dressers; they were not trans-gender. They were very handsome men – one of them looked just like Pierre Clémenti, the actor who played the debauched chauffer in the brilliant Bertolucci film, Il conformista. I knew somehow that this station was their meeting place. They met regularly there but at lengthy intervals to elect their king.

I wanted to go back down into the station so I could catch a train, get back home. I didn’t have the money for train fare, but I figured I’d beg for it, give blowjobs for it if necessary – I wanted to get home.

But the stairs leading back down into the station were the most frightening things I had ever seen, practically vertical, covered with green slime. Monstrous waves from the turbulent ocean kept washing over them. I knew I’d never get back into that station.

I began walking down the street. I saw a café – this was the place where Ben and I had been traveling in the first place! It had a very peculiar name (I forget the name now.)

The café was kind of like that H.G. Wells story The Door in the Wall – once you were inside, you had entered this huge beautiful garden filled with magical animals and plants.

So I walked inside…

And promptly woke up.

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