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Woke up again in the middle of the night.
And when I fell back asleep…
Dreamed Liza, Max’s X-gf whom I’d liked very much, had a brother of some exotic, undetermined ethnicity and nationality, and that brother needed to speak with me about something extremely urgent—a missing person? He lived in this medina of ancient twisted buildings whose facades fronted this busy ghetto street. And I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn’t because first, I’d lost my shoes and then my little electric bicycle got stolen—
Just as a note, I’ve never owned an electric bicycle in my life, but in the dream, I went everywhere on it, had owned it for years, and was quite distraught that it had been stolen—I mean, it was such an ancient clunker! Who’d want it but me?
Oddly enough, in this part of the dream, I knew I was dreaming. Or at least—I knew there was some reason why it was important to remember every one of the details even though the details, quite maddeningly, kept fading in and out.
Then I was on a long beach. Quite the most beautiful beach I’d ever seen; it went on for miles, and it was a beautiful day, a few clouds in the sky—their shadows chased the waves. I was staying with a couple in some sort of commercial beach hut. Youngish man and his Asian girlfriend. Had we been asleep and just woken up? Once again, I was missing important things—in this instance, they were various articles of clothing and my old camera. I was getting dressed, and I couldn’t find my sweater or jeans! I put on the clothing that I found, but with a kind of inner disgust—who wants to put on other people’s dirty clothes?
But the camera! I walked down from the hut to look at the ocean and clear my mind—it was an old camera, but it was mine, and I liked it—but when I looked back, I couldn’t see the hut.
And I started walking up and down the beach restlessly. At some point, the beach abutted a busy metropolitan street, which in my mind was in Gijon, that strange little city in Asturias. But surely the hut had been a long way from this intersection! Had I walked the wrong way? Where was I?
Calm yourself, I told myself. The hut has to be somewhere. There’s a rational reason why you can’t find it.
And I turned around, began walking in the opposite direction and woke up.
###
A significant dream, I’m thinking. Though where that significance lies, I’m not sure. Lost objects affecting my ability to move freely, my ability to record what I see.
###
Peace of mind has been hard to come by these last few days. Lingering effects of getting so sick and my general state of immense dis-ease over the state of the world. Also, I think I’m starting to miss Rutger: For the first month after he died, it was hard to wrap my head around the fact that I would never see his dear little pokey orange self again.
###
Did absolutely nothing of any import yesterday, so mesmerized was I by the Michael Cohen hearings. Talk about your tragic Shakespearian anti-hero! I actually felt some sympathy for the guy.
There are many stories circulating about why Cohen flipped.
Most likely is that he saw what happened to Manafort and thought, It ain’t me, babe. Three years in prison—probably 18 months with time for good behavior: That’s a bargain. And there’ll be a book deal waiting when I get out!
Then there’s the epic tale about How Trump Humiliated Cohen at Cohen’s Son’s Bar-Mitzvah.
My personal favorite, though—and by far, the story most likely to be apocryphal—is the one where Cohen’s Holocaust-survivor father takes him aside and thunders, You have brought shame upon my house.
The Cohens were the priests of the Ark, after all.
And when I fell back asleep…
Dreamed Liza, Max’s X-gf whom I’d liked very much, had a brother of some exotic, undetermined ethnicity and nationality, and that brother needed to speak with me about something extremely urgent—a missing person? He lived in this medina of ancient twisted buildings whose facades fronted this busy ghetto street. And I wanted to talk to him, but I couldn’t because first, I’d lost my shoes and then my little electric bicycle got stolen—
Just as a note, I’ve never owned an electric bicycle in my life, but in the dream, I went everywhere on it, had owned it for years, and was quite distraught that it had been stolen—I mean, it was such an ancient clunker! Who’d want it but me?
Oddly enough, in this part of the dream, I knew I was dreaming. Or at least—I knew there was some reason why it was important to remember every one of the details even though the details, quite maddeningly, kept fading in and out.
Then I was on a long beach. Quite the most beautiful beach I’d ever seen; it went on for miles, and it was a beautiful day, a few clouds in the sky—their shadows chased the waves. I was staying with a couple in some sort of commercial beach hut. Youngish man and his Asian girlfriend. Had we been asleep and just woken up? Once again, I was missing important things—in this instance, they were various articles of clothing and my old camera. I was getting dressed, and I couldn’t find my sweater or jeans! I put on the clothing that I found, but with a kind of inner disgust—who wants to put on other people’s dirty clothes?
But the camera! I walked down from the hut to look at the ocean and clear my mind—it was an old camera, but it was mine, and I liked it—but when I looked back, I couldn’t see the hut.
And I started walking up and down the beach restlessly. At some point, the beach abutted a busy metropolitan street, which in my mind was in Gijon, that strange little city in Asturias. But surely the hut had been a long way from this intersection! Had I walked the wrong way? Where was I?
Calm yourself, I told myself. The hut has to be somewhere. There’s a rational reason why you can’t find it.
And I turned around, began walking in the opposite direction and woke up.
###
A significant dream, I’m thinking. Though where that significance lies, I’m not sure. Lost objects affecting my ability to move freely, my ability to record what I see.
###
Peace of mind has been hard to come by these last few days. Lingering effects of getting so sick and my general state of immense dis-ease over the state of the world. Also, I think I’m starting to miss Rutger: For the first month after he died, it was hard to wrap my head around the fact that I would never see his dear little pokey orange self again.
###
Did absolutely nothing of any import yesterday, so mesmerized was I by the Michael Cohen hearings. Talk about your tragic Shakespearian anti-hero! I actually felt some sympathy for the guy.
There are many stories circulating about why Cohen flipped.
Most likely is that he saw what happened to Manafort and thought, It ain’t me, babe. Three years in prison—probably 18 months with time for good behavior: That’s a bargain. And there’ll be a book deal waiting when I get out!
Then there’s the epic tale about How Trump Humiliated Cohen at Cohen’s Son’s Bar-Mitzvah.
My personal favorite, though—and by far, the story most likely to be apocryphal—is the one where Cohen’s Holocaust-survivor father takes him aside and thunders, You have brought shame upon my house.
The Cohens were the priests of the Ark, after all.
