November 28, 2016 (Monday)

by Yule Heibel on November 27, 2017

Oh my, tired I am. The sun is rising, and I feel slightly faint and already rushed.

I remembered my dreams. Strange stuff about sleeping in temporary quarters, then being roused for some reason and going with a bunch of friends (women, girls, iirc) to a gallery-studio space, but not really admiring the work on the walls. Then, for some reason, leaving there by myself and finding my bicycle, which for some reason looked like one of our cake forks (but functioned perfectly well as a bicycle), riding the bike far far away from the gallery-studio, past restaurants and cafés on a by now dark street (it reminded me of one of the less attractive streets here in town), then riding “back” as it were, in the direction of the studio-gallery, but now apparently finding myself on Broadway in Portland Oregon, also on a not very pretty street (or part of street). At one point it seemed quite sketchy, and I worried that my dessert fork wouldn’t get me through there quickly enough. Then it was light again, and continuing to the gallery-studio involved rock-climbing along a man-made artificial water feature in a park, so I abandoned my bike. I climbed down this rock wall, got my shoes wet, climbed along some embankments and emerged on the street with the gallery. But it was actually in a private apartment in one of the buildings, and I couldn’t find it. Some of my pals emerged from a building, so I then knew which one it was. They urged me to hurry, otherwise I’d be stranded without a ride home (they were going to leave now). I had to get my stuff from the apartment-gallery, though, so I asked them to wait. When I tried to enter the studio, however, I found I’d have to squeeze through a very small (barely bigger than my head circumference) hole in the ceiling! And I wondered how I did that the first time I visited (and left to go on my salad days fork-in-the-road ride). I called out the the “host” that I couldn’t do it, pull up my own weight and haul myself through this tiny hole. Around this time, that part of the dream merged with an earlier part, where I’d been sleeping in strange home quarters (I think my father was briefly in that part of the dream!), and now a huge ruckus broke out in the floor above mine. An intruder. Something dangerous. I hoped someone would call the police; a body crashing through the balcony rafters, falling to its (his? her?) death past my balcony. Of course, the weird thing is recalling these ridiculous dream sequences in an instant. Look how long it took me to write them out, try to describe them. But in the recall – and the dream itself – all was compressed into an instant.

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