DREAMS of 2012 2 of 2

MONDAY, 4/2/12: 5:34AM: I'm working on a fairly important newspaper in NYC, and both the Managing Editor and his assistant are out of work for some unknown reason, and the next-in-line has gathered everyone together to figure out what to put into the next edition of the paper. Most ideas involve not telling the readers what's happening, but I suggest that we start with a simple article saying exactly what the case is, and that we therefore won't be printing a regular edition, but will take this opportunity to give a brief review of the current situation in various parts of the world: here's the forest fire in the Congo; there's a famine in some other country; the political situation in seldom-talked-about Zaire is currently like this; that earthquake six months ago is being handled in this way. The person-in-charge seems taken with my solution and assigns various people to undertake different parts of what I'd suggested, and I feel a promotion coming on.

TUESDAY, 4/3/12: 5:49AM: 1) I'm looking at the graphical representation of an old Roman army: the first is a kind of pyramid with the leader on top, thus the most vulnerable; the second is a nested series of rectangles, so that the leader is in the center with protecting rectangles on every side, much better for the leader, worse for the soldiers. 2) I'm in a week-long course in some kind of medical training, but have to do something else on Friday, so I don't know what was taught---or even what test may have been given---on that day. I talk to the head of the program, someone like a main nun, and she assures me that she'll give me credit for whatever subject matter I missed, and I won't have to worry about my final grade, which makes me feel privileged. Then I find that my shoulder bag has been put into a stack of items to be discarded from the class, and open it to find that I could rescue my Scotch-taped wallet from under the central bottom liner, and also a few coins from the smallest of the three zippered compartments, and a tiny bag of candy or souvenirs from the central compartment, so I feel lucky that I thought to check what may have been left in it. 3) 8:18AM: I'm looking at a magazine on a table in the middle of a lounge area on an airplane and suddenly the plane starts rocking back and forth as if in turbulence, and I look out a window to see that we're dangerously close to the ground. I have a moment of panic when I wonder what's going to happen. 4) I'm looking for a place to pee, and see a series of doors to a men's room. When I enter, I'm surprised to see that all the toilets are visible in a long line of eight or ten, and I have a slight memory that I've seen this before and should therefore avoid this bathroom. But I have to pee, and suddenly there are three or four KIDS below me, seeming either to pee or to watch me pee, and I'm thinking that this might be pleasant if the boys were a bit older, but then realize they're making me pee all over my jeans, and when I pull them on they're quite soaked through, and I wonder how on earth they're going to dry, and fear they're going to SMELL terribly afterwards, but I wake before anything subsequent happens.

WEDNESDAY, 4/4/12: 1) Two pretty women, in a very tight movie close-up, gently kiss, with some kind of comment that something else may have been expected, but this wasn't "that kind" of movie. 2) Mom is whipping mashed potatoes, and keeps thinking they're not smooth enough, but I take out a stick---like a thick chopstick---loaded with potatoes and keep licking at the fluffy potatoes, and even though, yes, I can detect small buds of unmashed potato, I think the texture is quite perfect and she should stop worrying about it. But neither of us says a single word, and finally she stops beating the mixture and seems content with its final texture, and I've almost had a meal-course in the process of lengthy taste-testing.

THURSDAY, 4/5/12: 1:16AM: 1) I'm shitting when Mildred's visiting, and I'm in a hurry to get back to her, so I leave the toilet before I've really finished wiping myself, and as I get off the toilet I feel a tiny turd slip into the water. I try to ignore it, but when I'm stepping across a grate between two rooms, I feel two MORE turds slip out and splash into the water. I'm greatly embarrassed, but I tell Mildred that I've just had an accident and MUST return to the bathroom. 2) I'm listing countries and states in a computer, moving around their icons so that questions can be asked about them by just clicking on their icons. 4:31AM: 3) I open a walnut and find the curves of the meat coated with a fine gray dust. I ask people around me if it's dangerous, and the responses vary, but I decide not to eat it. 4) Some fragment about people "getting at" someone stupid about something---details forgotten---maybe until I get to the bed and remember, like happened with dream #2, above.

SUNDAY, 4/8/12: 3:54AM: Fragments: 1) Looking at a messy area on my shorts, just where I noticed some kind of red boil or bite on my right groin last night, and I think maybe it had been a pimple that had been expressed, and the pus was absorbed by my shorts. 2) An agent from some small, maybe Canadian, country or province is complimenting me on how I've listed different areas to visit, and have also included some of the smaller, more distant, areas where travelers seldom go. 3) 5:49AM: I'm hugging this short, thick-chested, slim-waisted guy, and he's responding wonderfully. Want to invite him home with me, but then he gets on the phone and I fear he's talking with someone who's obligating him to do something else instead of coming home with me. 4) 7:59AM: I'm in a hotel hallway, wanting to get to the lobby floor, and go into a service elevator that stops on my floor, thinking it may be quicker than waiting behind everyone else waiting for the regular elevator, but when I get in I find it only has a button for floor 2, which is some kind of service floor, from which I'll either have to go to another elevator to get to the lobby, on 3, or go down to the street, on 1, or walk some unknown stairway. Wake.

END OF ITALY DREAMS

TUESDAY, 4/10/12: 3:10AM: Had ORIGINALLY waked with the thought that this was 3/10, and couldn't wait to type 3/10: 3:10AM---but it's not true. What IS true is that I smoked most of two bidis to cum before going to bed last night, and then, for the next two hours, it seemed, had a series of LSD-like visions, rather based on the people on the trip, that had me vacationing in some place like Mexico, in a large villa owned by some of the participants in the dream, who had the ability, in my eyes at least, to transform themselves in size, color, and facial and bodily characteristics in the best stoned-Disney-cartoon manner: faces would rise from the floor and take on the body of a bird or an animal, and then turn in direction as they turned in form, bodily, to some other avian or mammalian creature, all the while smiling at me as if they wanted to seduce me into thinking that what SEEMED to be happening in my fever dream WAS happening in reality for my enjoyment. Characters came out of wall decorations and changed into carpet calligraphies. Two merged into one to fraction into three or four performing some fandango of almost-nightmare intensity. I was sure someone had slipped LSD into my drink to produce these impossible impressions. I was semi-awake much of the time, not yet solidly in sleep from my jet-lagged fatigue, and still the transmogrifications continued to surprise and delight me, until, later in the sequence, we were to go to a restaurant for dinner and I feared being the one who had to find seats for this menagerie, and I had no idea who was connected to whom, and who wanted to seduce whom. One, I thought, wanted me, but then he turned his attentions to others, or to the group in general, leaving me more confused than I was with the physical changes. Details of heads revolving, hands emerging from arms from bodies which had been mere torsos before, kept my head spinning. I noted, several times, that this was a dream I had to record to capture the madness, but the vignettes continued without let-up as I continued my dream-fugue. Jokes were told (as I told Spartacus NOT to tell when I spoke with him after 10PM, because I said that Ken had exhausted my ability to appreciate them during our three weeks together on the trip) and I whirled in place trying to keep track of who was saying what about which one of us or them. To repeat, I was sure I was under SOME hallucinogen's influence, and regarded all images, even menacing ones, as laughable tricks to keep me and the entire group amused. I think I could only repeat myself if I continued struggling for specific memories, so I'll stop now at 3:24AM and hope these few poor jottings suffice.

WEDNESDAY, 4/11/12: 4:27AM: I'm part of a crowd at a film festival, and everyone's excited because Joan Fontaine has just gotten out of a nearby car. But her long dress has become tangled in her feet, and she turns around to return to her car, to the thrill of people around me who'll be able to catch a glimpse of her face under her mop of Afro-like hair.

FRIDAY, 4/13/12: 5:01AM: A woman is following a tour group without being told that there's really no room for her, and cards that will go to her are arranged among cards for the others in order to camouflage and expedite the solution to that problem.

SATURDAY, 4/14/12: 5:45AM: I'm still in Italy, visiting a town where one goes to see the sun shining at a particular angle, and at 11AM I'm disappointed to find that that hour is 4PM, and I figure I can go to the library and read to pass the time after having lunch.

SUNDAY, 4/15/12: 5:15AM: I'm working for a government agency. My boss gives me a phone ledger and asks if I've ever transcribed anything like this before. "LIKE this, yes; but not EXACTLY this." So we have to establish conventions: the "from" section can only be a maximum of three characters, otherwise it's ***, with ***=whatever starting in column 70; MY comments on what can't be typed are enclosed in brackets, such as [foreign characters] or [entry not capable of being typed]; and maybe other conventions that I'll type onto a style sheet that will always be used for future typing of such material. My boss is very happy with the meticulousness of my work.

MONDAY, 4/16/12: 1) 7:15AM: I'm in a hardware store buying components for the installation of a new TV screen. I get a big angle-brace, and some kind of heavy bottom support, but I realize I don't really know where I'm going to install this; why can't it just sit on a table like my current Westinghouse 52-inch screen? But I continue with the purchases, until I realize I'll need industrial-size tools to work with, and ask somehow if I buy these, rent these, or use them free HERE, somehow. No one really seems to know the answers, and I don't fit into their usual, practical, experienced-in-this-area customer category. 2) 9:29AM: I'm staying in a ratty hotel in a big city in what is most likely India. Last night, I'd managed to sleep in a corner bed with my bags of possessions nearby, but today, returning from outside, I find that someone else has claimed my bed, and I have no evidence that it was actually MY bed, so I can't imagine that I'll get it back. Wander through the maze of rooms in this suite that seems to comprise a quarter of a floor, trying to find an unoccupied bed, and find one in a room that appears to be empty so far, but when I return with my Neo under my arm and two bags in my hand, THIS room is now jammed with about twenty people, and all the beds are claimed. "I had my stuff on that bed," I protest to one guy, who ignores me, while another tourist tugs at my Neo and says, "Let me have a look at that?" "No," I say abruptly, not imagining how he could ask for a favor when I was in such a state---and he might have just wanted to steal it, anyway. After a few false tries, I manage to find the elevator hallway, having noted that I'd left an apartment apparently labeled 5,4, which I took to be the fourth apartment on the fifth floor, and push the down button to see the elevator doors tilt back and forth in a not-quite-alarming manner. Manage to make it to what looks like a main desk, and try to talk to a blue-eyed man in a business shirt, who dismisses me with, "Can't you see I'm busy?" I look around at the young female secretaries, all busy at their desks, who are avoiding looking at me. Press myself up against a fellow who seems to be next in line, and look at a monitor that shows what I take to be rooms available, with their current rates, most of which are 3R, with more expensive rates going up to 57R, and I have no idea what the exchange rate in dollars is. Rooms seem to be filling quickly, and I think that maybe I can move to a new hotel, but I don't even know how many more days we'll be spending here, wherever "here" is. At another point, I entered a vacant room with windows open with curtains blowing out from the force of the rain falling outside, so I don't want to spend the day out of doors. At another point there was a problem with light switches, most of which didn't seem to work, and others that turned on air conditioners rather than lights. Wake with great relief in my own bed, current travel over, no worries about where to stay for the following days.

WEDNESDAY, 4/18/12: 6:45AM: I'm working for someone like Gladys Garabedian, who's in charge of filing supplies in a large Manhattan office. I haven't had anything to do for a long time, but she tells me that now I should start a log of "Select notebooks." One was started in the past, but no one knows what happened to it or where it is, and I have no idea what she wants on the new log, and she's too busy to answer my questions, so I try to figure out what she MIGHT want. The entries are in date order, but as I look at the first Select notebook, none of the entries are dated. Maybe, I think, it's just the date on the copyright page of the notebook, but I can't find that either. I then try to go to the next task she set me, which seems easier, but then I see her in a doorway and figure I can ask her more about Select notebooks, but suddenly she's surrounded by people asking her questions and I can't get through to her, and finally she leaves and I still don't know what to do. Feel mildly frustrated, and wake.

THURSDAY, 4/19/12: 6:34AM: I don't know exactly what it is---whether it's an object or just calligraphy---but some great award being presented to me is in the process of being gold plated by a team of experts in China, but most of the team isn't Chinese at all---in fact, one of the team is being made fun of because of his copper-red hair. The prize goes through six pairs of expert hands during the process, and I watch with interest as every tiny flake of excess gold is re-collected for future use. It's all a great honor.

FRIDAY, 4/20/12: 8:05AM: A young tall doll on a sofa, sitting next to me, rests his head on my shoulder, not minding who sees. I get him hard; he STILL doesn't mind. "How often do you jerk off?" "Sundays at 8PM." "Anyone watching?" I ask, then pause, and add, "Can I join?" "Sure." Wake vaguely aroused---need to pee and shit.

SATURDAY, 4/21/12: 5:27AM: Two dreams came---and went. Something about choosing some geographical position, and something about a group of people deciding what to do, but I can't remember anything specific now.

MONDAY, 4/23/12: 5:53AM: I'm labeling a picture from my last trip: it shows a number of antique musical instruments, and I can number them to reflect the numbering in the text, having trouble with the elephant, which seems to be in two parts of the photograph, and I want to make it clear to the reader that I thus have to use the same number twice. I'm eager to be finished with this documentation in the dream, as I'm eager to be finished with the ITAPUGLI trip in waking life.

THURSDAY, 4/26/12: 1) 12:55AM: I'm practically the only passenger on a Jumbo jet that does nothing but fly from the US to Hawaii to Tokyo to Hawaii to the US, each flight taking about six hours. But I somehow know that I can't get off in Hawaii, because I'm a homosexual, and Hawaii doesn't allow homosexuals to fly into their state. At first I think of maybe just not telling them, but then I remember that they have blood tests that they use on everyone, and that would tell them that I was gay, so I wouldn't have a chance to pull a trick on them. So I really don't know what to do, because I don't want to get off in Tokyo because I have no place to stay. It makes no difference to me in the dream that the logic of the dream makes no sense whatsoever. 2) 5:05AM: Though I'm home, and not on a trip, I'm somehow down to my last few days of pills, and, sorting them out, I find that I'm missing one pill on my next-to-last day, and on my LAST day I have only one pill, which I can consider to be an EXTRA pill on the day I start a whole new cycle of pills. In addition, unrelatedly, I'm getting the LAST issue of the Sunday New York Times, and it's complete EXCEPT for the Magazine, which is extra-large because it IS part of the last issue, and I'm confident, even though it will be an enormous collector's item, that I can go to a news stand and BUY their last copy of this last issue, so that I, too, will have it for my OWN posterity. Again, it doesn't make sense, but this, thus, is my dream.

FRIDAY, 4/27/12: 6:12AM: I'm working in an office that may be like an early Village Voice office: lots of independent writers, each doing their own thing, but needing to have some kind of Internet-like communication system. I come up with a Ledger: a tablet at the "front desk" that starts as Ledger 1, and I enter Topic 1, starting with BZ, the author; and a topic: Purpose of Ledgers; and Point 1: "Anyone can write anything about anything that they would like everyone to read and, maybe, comment on." Point 2: "Comments can be made about 1/1/2: Ledger 1, Topic 1, Point 2." Point S: "The last point could be a summary: "Topic 1 describes a general Ledger topic." I sit back and listen to some editor-type start to talk to someone else about a completely different topic, and realize that not everyone will use the Ledger, and that's perfectly OK, except I am amused to think that some "gem of wisdom" may go unrecognized when it's NOT entered into the Ledger!

SATURDAY, 4/28/12: 7:17AM: A few snippets: a) Was supposed to eat outdoors with Dad (like picnic with Carolyn formerly scheduled for today in Brooklyn Botanic Gardens?), but it's raining VERY hard out, so we're clearly not doing that. b) I'm storing something in a fat manila envelope and decide to write the word for the contents directly onto the side of the envelope---it can always be covered over later.

MONDAY, 4/30/12: 8:26AM: And I actually thought it was REAL! I'd taken two bags of laundry to the shop on Montague Street, with different baggies with various colored clothes that were just to be PUT AWAY with other items from the laundry---but then I realized that they would think BOTH bags were to be WASHED, and I'd ALREADY washed and sorted the colored stuff, so I woke the next morning in a panic, knowing I had to look for the laundry slip and get to the shop to tell them to call the factory and NOT wash the contents of the smaller bag---but I couldn't find the slip, at one point going into a computer room "at home" and seeing two completely lit computer stations: three or four screens and iPods and iPads and monitors lit and flashing and blinking both at Mom's desk and at MY desk, really lighting up the night-dark rooms---and I couldn't find the slip at ALL, wondering how I could identify the bags, and woke hoping that they hadn't done my laundry yet, and then realized it was just a dream.

WEDNESDAY, 5/2/12: 1) 2:43AM: I'm sitting on the john, late at night, home---but not where I live now---and a roommate appears at the door, pushing it open with closed eyes so that it takes him a while to recognize that I'm sitting there, and then he wordlessly turns and I can hear the sound of his vomiting in the bedroom. 2) 8:08AM: I'm about to land on some island in a plane, chatting with the guy next to me, and I look out the window to see where we're going as the plane noses steeply down, and, before I can see anything outside, it suddenly noses incredibly up, and up, until we're actually almost upside down, but so pressed against the seats by the force of the curve that we don't feel held down by our seatbelts yet. I wake before I can really panic.

THURSDAY, 5/3/12: 1) 3:02AM: I've got to pee in a restaurant, and the john in the back room is filled with ice that raises and lowers erratically. Then I have to make sure my shirt is smooth around my shorts so I can pull up my tight pants and zip my fly without catching the shirt in the zipper, and I wake really needing to pee. 2) 6:05AM: As if I'm in a Brit-series, I stop outside my wife's cottage and she asks me to just come inside to see the children, and I don't even know why I've been estranged, and don't know how to respond.

SATURDAY, 5/5/12: 1) 5:19AM: I'm in charge of a publishing project during World War II on an island that may be Japanese, or in some other foreign country. We have an enormous manuscript that is a series of war memories, already sorted in alphabetic order by the name of the writer, that has to be annotated before publication. I'm in charge of training the four or five civilians who are doing the annotations. I have to come up with a numbering system that keeps each entry in order, though each annotator will eventually finish an unknown number of articles. I determine that each group will start with a distinguishing letter, not necessarily the initial of the surname of the writer, and then be numbered sequentially. The length of each memoir varies widely: it may be as short as half a page, it may run on for many pages. Two or even three memoirs may appear on a page, and the annotator must decide this, as well as a small number of other decisions regarding photographs: the memoirist must be identified with a certain mark, an interviewer with another mark, a relative with another mark. Annotators must be trained to use these consistently. Some have already started, and I must critique their annotations before they spiral out of control. The stack of memoirs is about a foot thick, so it's going to be a very long project, and I have to establish annotating discipline from the beginning. It looks like it'll be an interesting job. 2) 8:47AM: Women in a popularity contest on TV are willing to do anything to get votes, even promising to give blow-jobs for votes.

SUNDAY, 5/6/12: 1) 7:38AM: I've arrived in Grand Central from a northern city, perhaps Boston, and look for my bag, which isn't on the table of stuff taken off the train. I ask what I can do, and am told I can make a claim in about half an hour. I find a good ballpoint pen on a chair and take it. I don't know what I'm going to do if my bag doesn't show up. I hear of someone renting out a pair of twins for $30,000 a day, and wonder how I could find a pair of twins, and how does one rent them? Wake with a vague sense of loss, happy that it's Sunday, and I can get the Times early, and then pee and get back to bed. 2) 9:56AM: I'm outside after some kind of picnic, and it starts to rain, but in VERY LIMITED areas, so that I can look and see the two or three square feet of grass that's getting heavy rain, while the surrounding area is dry. Note also that three or four frogs are dead, paralyzed, and dried out along the base of a brick building. I can't imagine how this would relate to the odd rain, and then I see smoke rising from a rolled-up rug, and unroll the rug to see a cylinder of red-glowing ember that, by the remnants at the ends, seems to have been an enormous earthworm, and AGAIN I can't imagine the odd circumstances that would produce such a bizarre end-result. Wake, amazed that I'd had such a detailed dream in what could only have been three or four minutes of sleep.

MONDAY, 5/7/12: 7:10AM: Fragment, obviously related to my current website obsession, dealing with some kind of schedule that's coming to an end, involving my telling a rather large number of people that they have to prepare for changes.

WEDNESDAY, 5/9/12: 6:02AM: Enormous, time-spending dream on breeding WITH pigs: starting on a hillside overlooking the breeding area, where farmers are preparing to take their pigs down to the breeding area, details forgotten, but IN the area the last thing that happened was that the head of the breeding household which had commandeered a breeding house to itself: a rough chamber with a dirt floor, five beds, three additional chairs, and a "leader" who demanded that everyone LEAVE before the pigs arrived, so that he could wash every surface with disinfectant: the plastic bed covers, the seats of the chairs, and the wooden surfaces around these areas. Never REALLY clear whether the pigs fucked the women or the women fucked the pigs, but everyone berated me when I AGAIN sought the answer to my basic question: are the products of this intercourse allowed to grow up, or are they quickly eaten, and everyone knew, without question, that the answer was that they were eaten. I still wondered if cameras were going to record the moments of actual intercourse.

THURSDAY, 5/10/12: 1) 2:02AM: I'm staying at Helen's, which Jimmy doesn't approve of, since he's snide to me whenever he can be, like offering me his pillow on the floor if I want to watch TV, and I say I'll be leaving soon. I want to phone someone that I've been held up here, but Helen gets a call and lays the phone down to send something via her typewriter, which I don't notice her doing, and she complains that I'm very pushy, wanting what I want when I want it, when I simply hadn't noticed that she was still, in some way, on the phone. Feel very uncomfortable, though there's a certain triumph in my being able to handle myself well in such odd circumstances. Later, she puts on a Hindu record and a number of people start dancing in a trance-dance manner, putting their hands on the shoulders of the pair in front of them and snaking tightly around the room as fast as they can go, and I'm amazed at the intensity of the dance they're performing. 2) 5:30AM: I've been watching a sexy guy in the gym, and he's jerking off while two others watch, and I envy the watchers. Then I'm in a bedroom, and the guy I've been watching comes in as if it's HIS bedroom, and I'm eager to see what might happen. He talks with me for a few minutes, seemed to accept my presence, and then another guy comes in that gets him excited, so I lay down, he lies on top of me, and the third guy sits on the second guy's crotch and begins playing with himself. I reach up to find his VERY pink cock dripping MUCH pre-cum, and I wet his cock-head and play with it, and wake VERY aroused and try to j/o, but the DVDs don't work, so I settle on recording the dream and go back to bed at 5:33AM. 3) 10:45AM! I'm watching a TV program about the introduction of nuclear energy into Romania, permitted by negotiations between Britain and France that placed the research in France, rather than Britain, because---it sounds silly, but it's a dream---it's closer to where Romania is in the south, and Britain didn't want to have any responsibility for it. I'm taking some politician on a tour, and we meet at the mouth of a tunnel in which some of the facilities are. Very odd dream, at a very odd time---so late in the morning.

FRIDAY, 5/11/12: 7:38AM: I'm reviewing ABT's extremely categoried roster of superannuated dancers: they have lived so long, and there are so many of them, that some are touted as being actually older than they are, like 105, because all the slots for any younger retirees have already been filled with honorary place-holders. One fragment involved a "star" having to land, in a helicopter, on an unusually calm bit of ocean in the midst of whitecaps, but since the calmness was there, the management took advantage of it although the passenger had not actually REACHED the age of 110. All very silly and obsessive-compulsive detailed.

SATURDAY, 5/12/12: 7:38AM: After 8:13, could it have been the non-alcoholic wine? Dream went on FOREVER: I've got a five-day vacation in London, staying with a "friend that I never met," and I have no plans, except that, like in Naples, I know of ONE night's performance at the Opera, yet think that if I get a local paper, there might be other opera or ballet performances in other halls that I could get a ticket to. Had breakfast, but think to get a fancy lunch. I'm dressed nicely, but it's been raining and my jacket is wet, so I'm not posh. Want to get a taxi, they call for a local name, and I think "it'll probably be 3 and 6," and when we get out, it IS 3 and 6, and my friend insists on paying, and I push my 3 bill and 6 piece into his hand, asking what he gave as tip, and he gave "4." I'll have to treat him to dinner, which is what he wants. Other friends along keep making jokes: something that should be handsome turns out to be ugly; something that calls for a very short person will get a very tall person. Time is passing, nothing's planned, and I think I may have to end up home alone for the evening, though they think we might spend the time in a local pub where THEY spend all their time, which for me would be the best intro to London. MANY other details now forgotten as I type in bathrobe at 7:45AM before getting Times and peeing.

SUNDAY, 5/13/12: 10:15AM: I'm wandering a new floor in the enormous IBM Building in which I work, seeing them set up demonstration computers from the past, deciding that the one I'm passing is not the newest one, but one generation earlier. Get to the door and find a young woman ascending a huge flight of stairs in a brick-lined tunnel; I follow her to the next floor, where I expect to see an elevator, but just see her continuing up ANOTHER huge flight of stairs. I don't want to walk up all those stairs, so I go down a side corridor and find what I think is a clear passage to the next hall with elevators, but see waves coming in over the stone flooring, and in a bit the waves get so deep that clearly I can't pass without getting totally wet, so I turn back to look for another way to get where I'm going, amazed that it's so difficult to get from one part of the building to another.

MONDAY, 5/14/12: 7:58AM: A TRUE NIGHTMARE!! I'm traveling with a small group to the southernmost city on a continent or a large island, but it's not a small town, like Ushuaia, on the southern tip of South America; nor is it a large modern city, like Singapore, on the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula; nor is it Japanese, on the southern tip of one of their main islands; but it may be like an imaginary city on the southern tip of South Korea---or some city with a port with signs in a foreign language, like on the Globe Trekker episode I watched last night on Bangladesh, where the woman tried to get a boat going south from Dacca, the capital, and searched wildly for it before it sailed. Anyway, few people in my dream spoke English, and a map I finally found had only Chinese-looking characters on it. The group had gone, in my impression, to the SOUTHERN part of a lake on an enormous barge moored (or a large park situated) in the NORTHERN part of a bay in the SOUTHERN part of the city. One or two of us had then walked NORTH, at times wading in the shallow lake, and when we turned around to the SOUTH to return to where we'd started, we somehow took a wrong turn that led us to a totally different part of the park, or peninsula, and at the end it was I, alone, trying frantically to find directions back to the place I started, to rejoin my group, before they left for the evening---and they may have even been leaving the country, having been here only on a day-visit between two other major countries---like an excursion to Macau from Hong Kong. Most of the people I asked didn't understand me, like they didn't understand the Trekker in Bangladesh. When I got a map, printed in light blue, showing an indentation in the southern bay that looked like it might have been the place from which I may have started, I kept pointing to THAT and asking how I could get back there. Once or twice, someone seemed to recognize my need and pointed me in the right direction, but at the very end I was directed to the base of a VERY NARROW peninsula extending northward into a SEA, with a pounding surf on the right-hand coast, that I certainly did NOT start from, and it looked like this peninsula continued in a very NARROW way until it would simply END, surrounded by water on all sides except the narrow peninsula now to the SOUTH, which would leave me FAR from my group. Now it began getting dark toward nightfall, and large vehicles moved down the coast toward me, forcing me almost into the water, and though for a second I thought one of these vehicles might have been searching for me, I realized with despair that NONE of these knew me, I did NOT know where I was or where I was going, and I had NO WORDS to communicate the name of the group or the place of the group that I would have to return to in order to continue with the next leg of my trip. And in that final despair I finally woke, in my bed, unutterably relieved to find it had only been a nightmare, and I was home, safe, knowing exactly where I was, BEING exactly where I needed to be. Finish typing at 8:18AM, finding that I'd gone to bed at 11:55PM, so it's just over eight hours since I'd gone to bed.

THURSDAY, 5/17/12: 7:04AM: I'm attending some kind of yoga meeting in an enormous ashram in the countryside somewhere in the eastern US, and I leave the central meeting for some reason, and when I try to return, I see them all filing out of a certain door, and I figure they're going to lunch, and I just have to follow them to get to the place for lunch. But, for some reason, I have to get back to the meeting room first, but I go into this room (and some PRIOR dream-images come back, to say that some guru who'd been attending had to suddenly LEAVE the room, and for some reason I followed him into a small room, and thought I could locate the MAIN room from the SMALL room, but kept going around the building and could find NONE of these rooms) and it's not the right room, and then I leave the building and find myself walking in fields, having NO idea where I am, and THINK SPECIFICALLY: "If only this could be a dream from which I could WAKE, I'd have no problem, but, unfortunately, this ISN'T a dream, so I MUST find my way on my own." See traffic on two distant roads that would intersect at a corner that I thought could be useful to get to, and I get there to find traffic passing, and I figure I might be able to ask somewhere where the Yoga Center is and I could walk there. A large green bus stops for a light near me, and I ask the driver, who says he not only knows where the Center is, but will TAKE me there. I think I'm extraordinarily lucky, but when I board the bus there are only three or four seats, all of them occupied, and I try to move into one, and a few of the locals, real hicks, start to make fun of me, and it might turn into a nightmare, except that in a moment I find myself having a decent-enough lunch (I have potatoes and peas on my plate after I finished my meat course), wondering whether I'll have to pay for this (I feel with relief that I have my wallet with me), and then I want something to drink, and go to a counter where I see a lemonade stand, but ask for iced tea, and they make a joke about this, but I figure it'll be good enough. And then I wake, amazed at the details of the dream, and type it out to 7:12AM.

FRIDAY, 5/18/12: 7:04AM: I'm watching a rehearsal of a TV ad for a private book press. A slender, tanned young man in a light red bathing suit is pulling down the tip of an enormous feather, while another man, below him on the ground, is on his back helping him---the two form a beautiful duo of bodies. The announcer, seated at a desk, presents a small book, extolling the convenience of putting together a small book of menus, for example, or maybe a list of places for tourists to visit, describing how a simple booklet of papers can be inexpensively bound and presented for use to a visitor or casual tourist, making convenient a service at such a small cost that it's almost free. The rehearsal starts again as the backward curve of the body of the teenager in the red bathing suit has an almost pornographic effect on the viewer.

SATURDAY, 5/19/12: 7:15AM: 1) I'm watching a ball game from an upper deck, through a hole in the fence over the last rows, where an "entertainer" was amusing the adventurous by showing off his body when his team made some winning maneuver. At the point I'm watching, there's a home run, and he squeezes the head of his cock and cums onto the upturned face of a fan. I love watching that, and even more the sequel: she turns her head up to her husband, sitting behind her, and he kisses her, seemingly relishing the taste of the cum from her lips, and she turns and shouts at him, "You LOVE that, you son of a bitch---you WANTED him to do that so you could taste him, you HOMO!" I am greatly amused. 2) I'm watching a TV program about a man who makes a display piece of a gun with which the gunner won a marksmanship medal. The medal was crushed onto the end of the former display, but this new displayer has managed to straighten out the medal and has found a way to attach the medal, with the label "Marksman," above the gun itself, making it more presentable, and justifiably feeling proud of his workmanship.

SUNDAY, 5/20/12: 9:30AM: Prior dream had some bookkeeping elements to it, now forgotten. The second dream featured a wonderful orgy with lots of appealing naked bodies around, and I started concentrating on the enormous cock on a fairly small young man, but when I eased off fondling him, he announced, "I'm in the phase of cuming, so keep on!" I try to oblige, and indeed his cock-head if bright purple and pulsing with energy, and I keep stroking his lotion-wet cock, hoping he'll cum soon, but he seems to be as far away from an orgasm as when we started, and I begin to think there's some kind of sexual con going on here, and I ease up again, and then wake, rather aroused.

MONDAY, 5/21/12: 8:39AM: 1) Having caught the tip of my right big toenail in my blanket in real life, my dream has me looking at it to find the top third broken and folded slightly outward, as if it could break off completely. 2) Fragment of trying to dry out a DVD (this IS a dream!) and opening a door to find my bathroom tiny and elevated on a small platform, all decorated in pink chintz. Silly!

TUESDAY, 5/22/12: 5:22AM(!): A sort of muscle-porn/comedy show is being planned for a VERY small TV studio, and no one really knows what they're doing, but they all have a remarkable faith that it's going to be a fabulous hit. I can't resist the comparison between my pile of website stuff on my desk and my totally whacked ideas of what I'm going to do next. What more is there to say, except that some of the muscle-studs in the production are so involved in their own bodies that they can't see how doomed their project is, except that it just MIGHT be the sort of far-out project that DOES succeed wildly! The comparison with the pastiche of "The Enchanted Island" is irresistible, seeing as how it's flowed through my life for the past three or four (or even five?) days.

WEDNESDAY, 5/23/12: 7:03AM: I'm staying in a meditation center, in a room with low round windows that look out over a regular house next door, and I think the permanent residents have an advantage on the other side of the building that overlooks another meditation center. I'm friends with four brothers who may be HIV-positive, and the center offers a radical new treatment for AIDS, and the brothers go through a retreat here to decide who will take the treatment, and they tell me that two will and two won't, and I congratulate them on forming a perfect little experimental group, but I don't think they'll tell me who chose what, and I don't even think I'll make the effort to conclude which of them would.

FRIDAY, 5/25/12: 8:30AM: 1) I'm watching a TV show about the testing of a new treatment for some rare disease among Alaskan Inuits, and the camera on a helicopter shows a beautiful mountain range that comes right down to a lake-edge in snowy cliffs, with the cliffs so steep it seems impossible there could be any towns nestled at their lakesides, but as the camera pans in, indeed there's an encampment of colorfully painted tents, very close together, behind a kind of palisade right at the lakeshore, and the show starts with an interviewer talking with the family right outside their tent about the great chance to test this new medicine. 2) I'm in a pharmacy where I'd just bought a box of Band-Aids to use on my foot after I tried some kind of foot-test equipment before being interrupted by a call that I should come to the counter to get my blood test specimen taken. I leave the open box of Band-Aids behind, feeling sure that no one will take it in the few minutes I'm gone. The new female clerk makes some kind of remark that my mother had made this appointment for me yesterday when SHE came in to have her blood tested (clearly I'm thinking about my possible fasting blood-draw this morning during my appointment with Dr. Chin), and I didn't QUITE hear what she said about my mother, but to make sure she knew she'd referred to my mother, I made the lame joke: "Be sure not to confuse my mother's test results with mine." She barely smiles. Then I go back to find that someone HAS taken my box of Band-Aids, and I feel annoyed that they'd do so, thinking it the equivalent of just stealing an unopened box from the shelf until I remembered that it WAS open, so it was clear that someone had "lost" it, so that taking something that was lost was not the equivalent of stealing it. Debated buying a new box, so that I'd have one at home, but decided that I could wait until I needed it and THEN buy a new box, feeling annoyed with myself for not just picking up my box when I was called away from where I was sitting.

MONDAY, 5/28/12: 4:44AM: Many fragments about travel in Italy with Joe Easter: 1) I complain that one company won't let me join in the middle, leave before the end, or change the itinerary in any way. 2) He joins two trips together and visits one town twice because of it. 3) Some woman complains about something Joe did on the trip. 8:22AM: 4) A large group is about to fly to Alaska for some enormously significant event. In preparation, before we fly, a semi-religious ceremony is about to take place: small icons are laid out, an altar-area has been set with a table and flowers, and a group of foreigners is among us, singing an anthem in their tongue, motioning us to kneel and try to sing along with them, which I demur, since it never works---but they're very disappointed with me. We're almost ready for the flight, items have been allocated and put away (someone asks when we're getting the dynamite), and I suddenly don't know where my camera and film-rolls are. Ask someone for the time, and he says 8PM, which it had been at least a half-hour ago. Wake and remember I have a digital camera now, which uses no film, so I have one fewer item to forget. Wake and type, feeling quite disoriented place-wise.

TUESDAY, 5/29/12: 6:02AM: I'd been given a diagnosis of some sexually transmitted disease, but was told by a relative stranger that that diagnosis had been proved to be wrong. I asked where the doctor who had given me the incorrect diagnosis was, and was told that he and his wife had just driven into the hospital's garage. I went to the front of this garage to see a pair exiting, and recognized the rather long, vulpine face of the doctor. I followed them into the lobby, where they continued to chat and laugh together while I tried to engage the doctor's attention. The wife lay down on a desk, laughing, and her husband bent over her to continue their jollity, and I pushed my face between them and shouted down at her, so that everyone around could hear, "I've been told I've been incorrectly diagnosed with syphilis," I said, emphasizing the worst word I could recall, "and I would like to know on what basis that incorrect diagnosis was made so that it will never happen again." The atmosphere around us froze, and I awoke before I could get any satisfactory answer, apology, or expression of remorse, sadness, or regret. Type to 6:10AM.

THURSDAY, 5/31/12: 8:33AM: I'm in a circus group, clearly inspired by "Empire" in the Spiegeltent last night. They're the cast of a musical devoted to people struggling with their problems. The first episode, more of a comedy, had them playing a Scrabble-like game in which they had to think of a word that contained an S, and finally I came up with globose, and made sure no one else could use it. Then it ended with a tiny woman who was lamenting something in a morose song, at the end of each verse of which she took another swig from a tiny bottle of red wine, all the while bemoaning the fact that she shouldn't be drinking. Before that, someone else had been battling with food when they should have been on a diet, eating just a bit more than they should have been eating. Each melody had a simple but catchy tune and rhythm, and I, even in the dream, knew it would be impossible to capture the quality of the songs.

MONDAY, 6/4/12: 6:28AM: Obsessive-compulsive dream of tourists getting spots on body (or map) when they visit "required" sites---or it's a record of fungal infections gotten from visiting these places---some of which could only have been gotten in the past, because these particular fungi are extinct now. Crazy!

TUESDAY, 6/5/12: 4:58AM: I'm getting a detailed explanation from Ken about ticket prices and sales for a premier series of guest artists and orchestras at Carnegie Hall: a second person wanting a single in the rear sections has to switch around for different dates; they might not even WANT to sell single tickets. I suggest I wouldn't mind paying, say, an extra $2 or so for a single ticket, but it would be silly of them to refuse selling a single; would they also refuse to sell THREE tickets, since it might LEAVE a single that "couldn't be sold"? And I astound Ken when I suggest I might not even WANT to see some of these performers: the program makes them look like country-western singers, which I don't care for.

WEDNESDAY, 6/6/12: 7:21AM: 1) This morning the dream centered around a jerk-off group comprised of both men and women, and a woman rather like the now-dead Susan McMahon got me into a room and demanded that I take off my clothes, knowing that I'd more tolerate her naked when I was excited, but that the sight of her naked body wouldn't contribute to my excitement. Very little erotic content in the dream. 2) I remember a dream from a few nights ago that I didn't transcribe: I'm watching an abortionist at work, and am amazed by two things: one is that the abortus is tiny, like a bloody peg of wood; the second is that he takes great care to remove every trace from around the fetus of what I suppose is the amnion, as if the health of the woman would be better in proportion to the amount of material surrounding the abortus removed and returned to the mother. At one point, I recall seeing some bloody implement in the tray containing the fetus and thought for a moment there might have been TWINS that had been removed. Certainly I haven't had a dream like THAT before, and I hadn't seen or read anything recently that would have contributed to the images or topic.

THURSDAY, 6/7/12: 5:08AM: Checkovian atmosphere: I'm staying in the country, in one of the enormous houses in this suburb. I'm delegated to cleaning up, but each pile of screws, set of plants, bit of repair, is all in the process of being done and can't be disturbed, so there's not really much to DO. I go to the quarters of the group that shares our building, and the floors are covered in leaves, and I find there are no electrical outlets for a vacuum cleaner, and I'm not about to use a broom, so there's nothing to do HERE, either. Wander past a central lake where birds whose names I don't know scream from treetops I can't identify. Outside, I pass the neighboring estate, comprised of a central building in barely adequate repair, which devolves into outbuildings of former glory, now abandoned, with broken windows, sagging curtains in them, vacant rooms that would need extensive repair to function again, and I wish I had brought a camera with me to try to record some of this rather splendid decay. Another episode has me disconsolate, inside, about not being able to clean, and a young man puts his hand companionably on my shoulder to try to cheer me up, which does, a bit, until a young woman comes by, takes me by the waist, talks a lot to buck me up, and then kisses me childishly on the mouth, assured that THAT will do the trick, and the young man compliments me for having gotten a kiss out of this sometimes standoffish girl.

FRIDAY, 6/8/12: 4:14AM: I'm competing against Bill Petersen to get a dermatological procedure to remove a "soft, nipple-like blemish" from my chest, relieved because I've been swabbed with an anesthetic that seems to work so well that I don't even realize the growth is gone already. The figure of forty pounds (though this is NYC) is mentioned, and I figure that this is very reasonable, since it's not even the price of an expensive meal, and certainly something I can afford. I think news from Charles that he's going into a hospital at the end of July for some minor operation had an influence on my having this dream.

SATURDAY, 6/9/12: Extremely COLORFUL dreams, particularly the second one. 2) I'm in some kind of class, but the teacher is a knockout: purple hair over a narrow face rather like Linda Hunt's, only younger and perfectly lineless. She's wearing an incredibly smooth woolen sweater of an intense orange color that the fuzziness of the wool only heightens. At one point I'm almost FORCED to touch her slender side, and when she inquires "Was it wrinkled?"---which it certainly was NOT---I could only blush and say "No, I slipped," as if I had to reach out to her adamantinity to stabilize myself. I kept following her around the classroom, in which I was the only student, mesmerized by her tubular torso, taut in her orange casing. 1) I'm in a busy factory, under the tutelage of a beautiful young man who was intent that I become an adept in this industry, as he was. The name "Rabalpha" was invoked at the beginning, and I noted that it was the proper name Ralph with the addition of the letters aba, to which I attached some kind of mystical significance. A thick, soft-cover, white book was fished out of a vat of water so that I could start reading the summary of the text on the introductory page, and I was amazed to see that the pages separated easily and dryly even though the cover dripped with the water from its bath. I was told, telepathically, that most of the instruction was nonverbal, but my trainer was convinced that I had the acumen to interpret and consolidate the instructions transmitted to my brain nonverbally. I had a "mess of pottage" that would indicate my degree of adeptness, and I seemed to realize that the fragments of a loaf of bread physically suspended in a pot of water would be dissolved into the fluid, over the period of about a day without being touched or stirred in any way, even though I dropped a thick, artificial, rose petal into it and fished it out with my fingers under the amused observation of my trainer, and I catered to his confidence in my ability to absorb this training by saying wryly, "I don't presume that I was supposed to do that." The "factory" had the quality of being like a library, in a separate building without a sign on a block that had only numbers on the entries' facades, and I said, maybe aloud, that I knew I could just leave and return by taking a taxi to "Number 8, [name of street, which I forgot]. I wanted very much to succeed in my training, as I wanted to please my extraordinarily handsome trainer, though I had no more aspirations than to get an approving touch on the arm when I succeeded beyond my wildrest (sic) dreams. As this assuredly was one of.

SUNDAY, 6/10/12: 4:27AM: I'm working in a genteel house of prostitution, and I leave for breakfast but have to tell the caretaker that the 7:30AM client was the one who left his umbrella, so that it could be returned to him if he came back to claim it. I went to have a meal, but after finishing the legs of a roast chicken, and being almost full, I was disappointed to find that the breast meat was woefully underdone, so I only ate the outside, better cooked, area, and left the pink interior uneaten except for a few tastes, and hoped I wouldn't get sick because of the underdoneness.

WEDNESDAY, 6/13/12: I'm listening to a recording by Caruso, and Ken says that HE sang like that at one point. I made a joke about "how MUCH he sounded like that," and he implied that he could give me a comparison test, and I thought that his voice would have been recorded later, with improved technology, and just might NATURALLY sound better; I also thought I would be able to detect Caruso's particular quality. Another dream segment had me studying an Army unit that was applying for a particular status for which the entire unit had to vote---maybe I'm thinking of the current privatization vote---and then the members would be in the equivalent of a labor union, with particular rights and duties.

THURSDAY, 6/14/12: 9:12AM: John and I are staying at a place like Hemlock Hall in the Adirondacks. We've just arrived, and on the bus we took to get here I'd worn flip-flops that I have to change out of before we go on our first walk in the woods. He may be in our room already, unpacking, but I'm determined to shit before going to the room (for some unexplained reason---it's really a stupid situation). Find that one basement john is filled with women, and so I go back to another, darker, one that's empty, pull the metal door shut and swing the bar across to lock it from the inside, and am faced with a wooden platform suspended from the low ceiling by chains at the four corners. This is suspended over an opening about five feet square, covered in sodden brown leaves that I first think are floating turds---though there are clearly turds also afloat---and the opening is about two feet square. So I have to pull the platform toward me---it's suspended so that its edges are about six inches away from the sides of the cesspit---creep across the wet surface somehow---I couldn't stand because the ceiling is too low, and also the thing would sway as I walked on it---as I say, the whole situation (shituation?) is so bizarre---and only later it occurs to me I could just squat over the edge of the pit without USING the precarious platform. Horrible dream, and wake and type to 9:20AM before actually shitting.

FRIDAY, 6/15/12: 6:13AM: I'm astounded to find that I don't even FEEL the thin glass tubes inserted under my skin as some kind of experiment. But when the first is poked, painlessly, through my skin so that I can pull out the 6-7-inch length of clear glass tube, I can then feel another in the other forearm. Fragment of dream from 4:48AM forgotten.

SATURDAY, 6/16/12: 6:20AM: I'm living in the Old West as a kind of supervisor, and to help in my job I collect business cards of individuals and businesses that I file in alphabetical order into a cube of pasteboard that I bind with two small rubber bands. At the end of the dream, where I've processed many requests and helped many people, I'm directed to look for a man named Morgan, whose card I don't have yet, who might be appearing in a night club this very evening.

SUNDAY, 6/17/12: 7:44AM: Long dream bathed in frustration: I'm at an important meeting of the company we all work for, but we none of us know what we're there for. I'm interviewed at one point, and I say I don't know who I work for, what is supposed to be happening today, and what the future might hold. Maybe the dream is just a reflection of how I feel REAL life IS these days: confusing, frustrating, ultimately not very productive at all. Fragments of "Lathe of Heaven" were there in subtle golden glints off back-body armor like from the alien in that play. I saw faces that were only slightly different from "South Park" drawings of faces. Even had an inkling in the dream how difficult it would be to describe the dream, and even presaging my CURRENT frustrated feelings about the whole thing.

MONDAY, 6/18/12: 4:01AM: I'm looking at an avant-garde dance program that's being given this afternoon, and it seems to be performed in one of my Akron schools: first I go to St. John's, but the auditorium is long closed, so I know I have to walk a few more blocks to get to a location that's a combination of the NEARNESS of Garfield High School and the SITE of St. Mary's. Other details forgotten.

TUESDAY, 6/19/12: 4:59AM: Starting with small pieces of metal that had to be snipped with scissors, which somehow represented items in place servings in a-century-ago England---two adjacent pieces exactly alike indicated, maybe, a small spoon, while a longer piece represented a knife, the dream ended with people looking out a window toward the top of a mountain where the rim showed white with what could have been clouds, but later, when the whiteness flowed swiftly downhill, seemed clearly to have been smoke from an increasingly active volcano within; the second time the whiteness was drawn to the attention of the watchers, it clearly seemed on the verge of eruption.

WEDNESDAY, 6/20/12: 1) 5:08AM: I'm staying in Grandma's house, but a modern one, not the one on Oakdale, and her bathroom has a bathtub that has a chute built into the side of it that functions as a urinal---and it's been used, as the tiny flat shelf at the bottom is stained yellow. I'm actually USING it when she opens the door, to my embarrassment, to tell me NOT to use it without flushing water down it afterward to avoid just that build-up of stain at the bottom of the chute. 2) 7:29AM: I'm at a rather quiet orgy, and as people are leaving, a tall fellow with a large cock lies down on a sofa and starts jerking off. I sit on a chair nearby and start fondling his balls, and he leaves his cock free for me to play with. I wake with the vaguest sense of arousal.

FRIDAY, 6/22/12: 1) 2:21AM: A television show depicts a workshop where trainees in making swords must cut themselves to prove the sharpness of their wares, but one cute guy just slashes his entire forearm, and the anti-hero insists he must be banished from the guild, while others argue that he was only showing his personal style and should be let practice the art. 2) Marvelously sensual sequence of being in bed with someone very like JFK, Jr., and he allows a kiss, which I do very tenderly, holding his marvelous face and head and hair in my hands with enormous tenderness, and he says, "Why does this feel so good?" I respond as levelly as I can, "Because I like to do it so much." And I wake and lie with a wonderful completeness of proprioception that my body feels entirely RIGHT in its position on my bed---and I DO long for a body to share it with.

SATURDAY, 6/23/12: 1) 2:35AM: I'm in South Africa when a new "nation," which is nothing more than another Black ghetto, is formed. The newspaper reports that almost 2/5 the population is now restricted to a small area with a "guard that seems to be adequate." I look down from a third-story window when two pitch-black men hurry toward the end of the street, where the restricted area starts, and I marvel that the population will now appear to be almost entirely white. 2) 6:10AM: My traveling dreams: this time I'm in Switzerland (why does that look wrong?) and needing to get from one town to the next for some kind of performance, and I have the (remarkably hare-brained) idea that I might be able to use a neighbor's bicycle to get there---in the dream I'm not QUITE as old as I am now. He's got it in the back of his four-door car, and I have a lot of trouble even getting it out through the back door! Then it turns out it has only one pedal! But still I try it, sloshing through an inch of water at the end of a road where two OTHER crazy people are out with THEIR bicycles! But I'm still trying it, since the towns really are next to each other, but there are great slopes to the roads between them, and I quickly decide that this just isn't possible. Find a friend of the family to ask for his name, and find that I can just give the address to the telephone operator and she'll know the phone number. Somehow, in this same dream, I'm a guest with Rita and Mom in a house that's giving them a fancy dinner at which there's no room at the small table for me, but I decide to take a picture of the dinner anyway, and Rita takes me up to the small room with a TINY table, maybe fifteen inches on a side against the wall, and she said it was very difficult to eat, because two people were sitting side by side on a bench against the wall, eating from there. Total madness in that situation---and in this DREAM!

SUNDAY, 6/24/12: 5:38AM: This wasn't a dream, this was a TV series! An enormous fashion contract is being contested among a number of design studios in NYC, and I'm observing the process. One studio is working on an enormous presentation of seven layers, each with its own supervisor, all color coordinated. Another studio is committed to a monochromatic scheme. I'm following a "hayseed" that I think is legitimate until the representative of another studio implies that he's a "faux" hayseed operating for effect. I'm riding in taxis from one part of town to another and am asked, "Is that car that's following us from a rival studio?" I look in the rear-view mirror and all four people in the car are wearing patches on their cheeks, like the ear patches for seasickness, except these have holes in them, as I describe it, "Where the hole is so big that the area of the hole is equal to the area of the remaining fabric around the hole." Everyone's astounded, but conclude that these ARE travelers who are using the patches for jet-lag time adjustment. One of the representatives I'm following finally gets to Macy's, which I'd thought couldn't possibly provide a winning style, but the representative screams enthusiasm when she sees an entire living-room suite upholstered in the same flowery pattern, with throws on tables of the same pattern, and even artwork on the walls echoing this floral color, and she throws herself onto a pillowed couch and her DRESS fits into the scheme PERFECTLY, and I enthuse, "If they chose according to the meld of your dress with the motif, this would win hands down." The studio with the seven-layer motif finds that the top layer is superfluous and discards it, cutting the sixth layer into a rough dome that's out of proportion to the other layers, but the numericalness works otherwise and they're delighted with it, though it's alarmingly klunky. All this in vivid color, in New York City's summer heat, with the energy of a reality talent show. I could make a TV promo of the material I went through in the dream.

MONDAY, 6/25/12: 7:43AM: I'm proud of my accomplishment with a data table whose captions are on one page, and the numbers are on the following page. In a connected way, a table with five tiny entries (somehow reminiscent of my website searches last night in files N2, N3, N4, and N5) with decreasing amounts of page references, the last having only two tiny entries, one of which is self-referential, the value of a superscripted 2. VERY anal-compulsive dream.

TUESDAY, 6/26/12: 8AM: VERY variegated set of dreams: they begin with Mom and me returning to an apartment very like 1221 Dietz, except that we enter through the kitchen and Mom goes into the living room to look down and say, "How did YOU get in here?" I join her to look down at Charles, looking old and weak, clad in a mossy-colored suit, his arms clasped around his chest, slumped in an enormous easy chair. "Oh, I got in the French way; it's easy if you know how," he said, smiling weakly. The dream shifts wildly, and I'm standing outside on a Manhattan street in the mid-Twenties, facing a facade of buildings that seem vaguely familiar: that Gothic building on the right appears to be a front for the Newman Cathedral behind it, which I vaguely remember having seen on a guided tour of this area many years ago. On the left seems to be an apartment building that I've just left (is that a pun?). Further west on the street is an elegant party that, somehow, I know Charles may be attending, and I debate finding a cell phone and calling inside to see if he's in fact there. Between me and that entrance is a woman smoking a joint, and I consider how I may pass her and ask for a toke. The people in the crowd in front of the Newman Cathedral seem to be signing a register, or maybe a legal release of some kind, in order to tour the interior for free. Many other colorful details forgotten.

WEDNESDAY, 6/27/12: 8:29AM: I need to fill my oil tank, and have only a grubby pitcher of oil to fill it from. Verify that my tank is almost empty, and that the pitcher's contents won't overflow it, and pour the oil while standing on a carpet onto which some oil spills, and I'm not quite sure how I'm going to sop it off the carpet. I'm talking on the phone to the supplier while I'm pouring the thick, dark oil. Other fragments before these are forgotten.

SATURDAY, 6/30/12: 7:20AM: I'm at a sex clinic, where another guy wants to have his tubes cut, but the representative says there might be questions about the exact procedure to follow. I have no problem because I don't intend to have sex with women. Then we're involved in writing letters to get information about the clinic's policies, and I'm not sure how to address the letter. Later, at dinner, I'm amazed to see the dinner companion on my left casually pour his beverage, a strange, wine-colored liquid that I think is only colored water rather than any kind of alcoholic drink, into what must be a flask in his left pocket. The person on my right gapes across me in amazement at this act.

SUNDAY, 7/1/12: 7:20AM: I'm teaching a class of very young students in an old school building. Every morning I have to walk down two or three flights of old metal stairs to get the keys for the classes from where they were left at the last class last night. I could have the teacher from the last class bring them up, or have one of the students do it, but I feel good that I've never NOT done this, and many of the students are proud of their grades, which makes me proud of them, so I'm happy to undertake this menial task every day to solidify my feeling of dedication to them---and hope the authorities recognize this.

WEDNESDAY, 7/4/12: 8:22AM: I'm riding in an old-fashioned town car, and the driver passes a grocery store that appears to be open, and he stops and tells me to get three items: the first I forget, the second is a particular kind of bread, and the third item I forget as I type, while I recall the first is an addition to paint---or something---that causes a particular change of color. I despair getting the purchases right. I momentarily recalled an earlier dream, but as I type now I forget that too.

THURSDAY, 7/5/12: 7:38AM: Multiple dreams centered around an enormous British manor house in which I'm either living or staying in for an extended vacation. 1) On the grounds of a lake which has just had a jet of water thrown into the air with vivid lighting from below, I'm listening to a conversation between a representative of the owner and a newsperson: "We had to do something to increase interest in visiting the place, but it had to be quick because we couldn't afford eighteen years of publicity to gain attendance. This is just quick and easy to do." 2) I'm waiting for the hallways to clear so I can take my laundry bag down to the laundry room. I put in a large, hard-edged pillow, and it just overburdens the outline of the laundry bag, so I stuff it down inside and force the cover shut, and walk down the four flights of stairs---eschewing the elevator---and leave it at the margin of the storage room where a half-dozen other containers of dirty laundry are waiting for their owners to actually use the machines there for their use. 3) I'm cleaning up after a messy woman has left parts of my rooms in a shambles, particular concerning candles, which she's enamored of. I scrape many rings of melted candle wax off my coffee table, but really get annoyed when one of the candles has fallen over and burnt a small depressed hole into the table, which is now for some reason filled with water (I think of the small quantity of water from the glass I knocked over last night in the Good Stuff Diner with Ken before the fireworks). I really feel, in the dream, that I have to have a stern talk with the woman about NOT using candles EVER again in my rooms, because of the danger of damage to the furniture AND the possibility of a disastrous fire from her ill-attended candles.

SATURDAY, 7/7/12: 5:24AM: [First, the impression that this was the first dream in many DAYS, but I was surprised to see that my last entry here was Thursday, only two days ago!] Funfare turned brief nightmare! Astounding psychedelic dream-turning-into nightmare, the first of its kind in a VERY long time [would like to find when the last one WAS! On Monday, 7/9, I check DREAMS and find that I had nightmares on 3/29 and 5/4, but on 4/10 I had the last "bidi-cum" nightmare of comparable strangeness]. Clearly the result of smoking two whole bidis while jerking off from 1:32 to 2---astounding! EXACTLY one hour!---1:32 to 2:32AM, I can only re-emphasize this was a MOST extraordinary DREAM! Let's start with the appalling climax: I've finished the penultimate scene of being "rescued" from a "public" restaurant in which I inadvertently found myself after being denuded in the water by funfare participants, but clearly my nudity wasn't appropriate for, as I say, this "public" restaurant I took refuge in: they were in NO PART of the funfare I'd "escaped" from and they did NOT want my naked person interfering with their eating in this "public" restaurant! [Ineluctably I think of part of the report I made to Sharon just a few hours prior, at 5:45PM yesterday: that some few MAY have visited my website, but were so turned off EITHER by my open homosexuality: admiring a tight-jeaned, broad-chested fellow across from me in a subway, perhaps, OR by my open descriptions of my pee- or shit-reads, and were too embarrassed to report on their introduction TO my website---this had translated into MY feeling WAY out of place in this "public" restaurant as READERS had felt out of place in my (sort of) PRIVATE website!] So many ramifications! BEFORE my "rescue" by the "public" restaurant, I'd been wandering contentedly in a fantasy landscape that gradually turned nightmarish: a desert valley that, at first, had only small insects crawling out of the desert dunes, but the creatures increased in size until they were foot-long millipedes crawling out of chthonic tunnels in the hills, which creatures then grew even larger until they became four-foot-long, revoltingly plastic-like, of a root-beer-orange color that was NOT natural---like irradiated chitin---super-insects that resembled millipedes grotesquely enlarged, moving on giraffe-like legs numbering in the DOZENS, higher in front than in back to give them a menacingly LOOMING aspect, scurrying obscenely behind me in increasing phalanxes, each creature growing ever larger moment by moment, until they entirely blocked the way behind me, crushed unpleasantly around me in their forward cascade, until ahead I sensed a sort of city INTERSECTION that was massed with such numbers of creatures that the few humans caught in their eldritch parade were hopelessly outsized, outmaneuvered, and THREATENED, not with being eaten, though this wasn't far from the sense of danger, but of being physically CRUSHED in the MASS of these chitinous bodies! I reached up for what appeared to be thick bamboo poles to pull myself ABOVE the seething mass of hyperinsects, and in doing so had to SHIFT MY FEET from running into climbing, and while doing that I physically shifted my feet and legs in my bed, which helped catapult me out of my nightmare into aghast wakefulness! I lay for a moment, stunned by the vividness of the funfare-turned-nightmare, and then hastened to transcribe as much as I could remember. It STARTED with an invitation to a kind of party in a large amusement area---no, not yet an amusement area, it started as more of a parklike glade that only gradually turned into a large group of people participating in some kind of be-in, all in very good humor, everyone hoping to have fun and unusual pleasure without any sense of harming or being harmed. As if everyone were slightly stoned and interested in being entertaining and entertained. The first "odd" sign was being welcomed into a kind of mosh pit, where I was physically flung onto a group of people who, with great delicacy and good humor, carried me over their heads, palpating my body agreeably, whisking me into a new area of physical participation in this be-in-party atmosphere, like a wonderful new kind of private club for sensational entertainment. I was pleased to be the center of attention for this welcoming horde of participants, looking forward to enjoying their company as I was corporeally taken into their midst. Then the mode of being "taken" turned into a vehicle on which perhaps a dozen of us were conducted on a kind of funhouse ride through streets that were, remarkably, part of PRIOR dreams of mine: grand old streets fallen into disrepair, on either side of which were STUPENDOUS private residences that had fallen into crumbling decay: mansions twelve or fourteen stories high, with lofty penthouses above capacious storage areas below, each rather like what the Duke Mansion foundations would have turned into had their planned castle been built above them: thousands of square feet of habitable space---do I sense now an influence of articles I've recently read about a current movie about the biggest private residence, in Florida, which had gone into bankruptcy when their owner's time-share empire fell on hard times in the current economic downturn? Certainly possible! However the KIND of buildings along these roads were VERY like ones I'd dreamed of before as being located in some "lost" suburb of northwestern Manhattan or the Bronx, where, in previous dreams, I'd been so convinced of their reality that I wanted to take down street names, or subway entrances, so I could, IN WAKING LIFE, see these extraordinary structures fallen into so-picturesque decay: each on their thousands-of-square-feet city plots, each supremely individualized (some modern, some Gothic, some Mannerist, some Romanesque, some Carnegie-Mansion grand, some almost Carcieri---WHO was that Italian artist? [7/9/12 go to Google, but before I can type in Carcieri, the name Piranesi comes to me]---in character, yet all attractive in an over-opulent way), like an Angkor Wat compound of Faulkneresque Gatsby styles of Long Island duchies. Some so intact as to seem only recently abandoned, some nearly heaps of rubble, but most in a special-effects kind of half-destruction that still revealed a past glory, yet presented a current disintegration: broken windows, fallen turrets, wall-less sub-basements now open to the weather, as if the ground around the crumbling foundations had itself been eroded away through years of time. Buildings eerily ASLANT, as if their foundations had randomly sunk under the weight of the superstructures above. Some appearing to have been attacked by fire, or tidal waves, leaving them in ruinous splendor. Higher than any of their surrounding trees and gardens, greater in area than any possible urban construction, higher than any conceivable practical use. I tried to point out particularly distinguished examples of these ruined hulks, but my fellow passengers seemed strangely uninterested, as if they were drugged, or inured to such sights, or merely unappreciative of my selections. This "tour," or "episode," left me at a sort of EDGE of the amusement area, where I wondered who would guide me farther, when some friendly soul led me toward a limpid body of water---the sea as a swimming pool---and encouraged me to wade in deeper and deeper, until---merpeople?---participants in this new environment surrounded me and encouraged me to permit the waters to remove my clothing, so I could undulate, fish-like, in this supportive sea and enjoy new degrees of physical freedom. I delighted myself here only momentarily, until I was flung out on some far shore, no one around, to wander naked into that "public" restaurant I'd described before, hoping to find equally joyful participants around me, only to find hostile "others" looking at ME as "the other," wishing me NOT THERE---and I had no idea which way to turn to get back to my glorious funfare. As I was almost bodily ushered out, still naked, I then found myself in the desert landscape that gradually became infested (like my kitchen with roaches?) with larger and larger versions of nightmare millipedes. I feel I've under-remembered CENTRAL parts of the dream, AFTER the genial funfare of the be-in, BEFORE the "public" restaurant, yet I'm sore-shouldered now at 6:12AM from typing for FORTY-EIGHT minutes in an attempt to faithfully report on a most unusual dream! And even sorer, now at 6:28AM, an hour and four minutes into my marathon, after going back and proofreading and editing my description to be more readable. Added at 6:39AM: it's as if I have a LIBRARY of past dreams, and I can, starting to dream, go to a shelf and pull out the "decaying mansions on lost streets" dream. AND think of the wonderful city sketches I'd seen last night in the movie "It's Like a Funny Story," though they were nothing like the DETAILS of my city, but they partook of the FANCIFUL quality of the composition---and of course I am reminded of the magical "What Dreams May Come." Type to 6:43AM.

MONDAY, 7/9/12: 8:18AM: Many phases of climbing a mountain: 1) early on, confused images that I'd wake and think, "I may have had a dream that I should record, but I can't think of what I'd say it was comprised of." 2) Half-way up, in some kind of room hollowed out of the mountain itself, we'd finished lunch and prepared to step out onto a sun-lit balcony high in the air, the dun-colored wooden floor at the edge of the balcony looking out over nothing but blue sky. 3) Toward the top, the dream featured a kind of chart depicting narrow sky-terraces, like trays supporting spindly sculptures whose tops rose beyond the upper frame of the chart, so no one had any idea how many of these levels remained above the ones we now occupied. The thought, "It'll soon be dark," hovered, though there seemed to be no way of knowing how many hours or minutes of daylight remained. The thought, "We must be at a great altitude," was not even expressed, though it had to be a consideration lurking somewhere in the unconscious. Just before this, a small dream-fragment included a ribbed tower that represented a middle section that we somehow magically traversed, as if our whole endeavor wasn't a physical task but the mere watching of images on a television or movie screen---or it was a purely philosophical CONTEMPLATION of such a difficult climb. I remember NO physical sensation from ANY kind of effort. Woke with enough memory to be confident I could record details after I peed. Type to 8:28AM, putting on fan, happy to see with my binoculars that it was only 73 outside, the lowest temperature in perhaps ten days. Well, no, the Times reports that the low on Thursday---no, I reconsidered, it may have been Tuesday---so I check the Times again and it was WEDNESDAY---was 70. Window opened, fan on, now at 8:33AM back to bed.

WEDNESDAY, 7/11/12: 7:20AM: I'm waiting in a long line with others waiting to pick up tickets for a Stones concert. There are six of us, and for a long time we're not all in line, and I ask some of the younger people to go into the crowd to see if they can find X, who is very famous, but who is in our group getting one of our tickets. Finally all six of us are found, and I push forward at a time when the line is thinning out ahead: the adults have moved forward and the kids are slower, and some of the people behind me want to move in front of them, but I figure I can move at least as fast as the fastest of them and keep in front of the people who were behind me. "It's LATE," everyone is protesting, but I figure there'll still be time, after getting the tickets, to make our way back through the crowd to get to our seats well before the concert starts, maybe at 6PM. We do this every year, and I keep thinking there's GOT to be a better way to do this, easier on the patience of the people who already actually have tickets.

THURSDAY, 7/12/12: 1) 12:47AM: I'm walking back home, south on Dietz, through the outer hallways of the houses on the block. Some of these are through occupied rooms, and I apologize for my passage, and they permit me to go through. One house is having a party, and I'm impressed with what they've done with the ground floor: made it essentially into a single party room, with a blue-and-white-iced cake on one wall, festivities on the far side, and a bevy of maids making up the serving table on the side. I go around another table toward a door to the outside, and people glance up at me quizzically. Without transition I'm outside on a cliff-face, walking toward the back of what at first seems to be a rock overlooking the street, but when I get even with the top of it, I'm looking down at a carved face, so I'm actually on the back of an enormous bust, which suddenly totters as I almost overbalance it, and I back off with a quick sense of fright. Then I wake. 2) 8:01AM: I'm staying in what appears to be a National Park in the US West. It's about 4PM and I want something to eat. I'm sitting in a crowded theater---even though it's daylight and there's no stage with anything on it---and think to go to the left, but a man four or five seats to my left, only about three seats in from the left aisle, gets up to leave TOWARD HIS RIGHT, that is, toward ME, so I decide to leave to my right. There's an enormous line in the lobby toward the left as we exit, which I believe is waiting for some kind of box office. To the right are masses of people going up a half-flight of stairs to a restaurant area, and I join that group trying to find a take-out place where I can order a sandwich to take to my room. But as I look at the possible dining places, it's clear that it's only possible to order food at a sit-down restaurant: there IS no take-out place. I look at the lounge of one restaurant and see people sitting in armchairs talking; behind them are displays of steaks and chops in plastic wraps, which I fantasize taking to my room and cooking somehow, but I have to get these bulky packages out unobserved by anyone. I go toward a group of young women dressed in the style of the 60s, like in "Mad Men," (wide, flaring skirts, heavy facial makeup, old-style high heels), and I think to enlist them as my accomplices, somehow. So I try to flirt with one, and she's willing to be seduced and enlisted, but an older woman, sort of a chaperone, comes up to her and asks why she hasn't seen me before, and can I be trusted---and I wake. Does this stem from my hunger caused by the dinner I didn't have last night?

FRIDAY, 7/13/12: 5:08AM: I'm listening to a friend tell his friend a problem he's been having with a very young person new to the gay scene in NYC: he's very sweet, but he insists on behaving in health-threatening ways. I insist I won't let him stay with me if he continues. He's just a darling kid, but I won't be enabling self-destructive behaviors. Sadly, I don't think he'll listen to me, and I'll lose him, and then the world will lose him.

SATURDAY, 7/14/12: 5:44AM: Well, I DID go to sleep after peeing, thinking I needed to shit but actually didn't do it. So in this dream, I really SHIT! I'm in the basement of some building that may still be under construction, and I look for a john that's working, but can only find a toilet that's been blocked off at the entrance, but I can still go in to find a roll of construction paper, rather like the roll of bandage I just put under the sink, that I'd been offered by Dr. Pollock, who said, "We're going to throw this away, but you might want to take it." It was quilted blue paper with the satisfying roughness that would make it good toilet paper. I applied it and it seemed to come away clean, but as I tried it a second time I could feel a rather large turd escaping from my anus, at the same time a group of people came into the room. I felt that I was out of sight from them, but then some kind of demonstration of a production number was starting, and I looked up to see enormous curtains being raised on a stage on which entertainers were dancing, and from the ceiling, high above, a whirling display was being lowered which, when stopped, showed the logo Mickey Mouse in artfully 3-D carvings. I walked across a public area with my trousers still lowered, almost reveling in the freedom my nightmare gave me, and then pulled up my pants and left, hoping no one would find the shit I left behind until I was out of sight. Following that, almost awake, there was the playing of a new melody, with the words, "No one was left behind," which built into a marvelous climax, and I wondered how I could order it from the Internet so that I could listen to it again and again. Type to 5:54AM, STILL not feeling that I had enough intestinal pressure to actually defecate.

SUNDAY, 7/15/12: 7:30AM: Another "repeat dream pulled off the shelf": I've gotten the delivery of a box wrapped in brown paper from a long-time sender in what may be Canada, and I look inside to find large collections of stamps, very valuable, but also small bags of useless things, like the bag that contains two empty snack packages and a very small black patent-leather purse. One item distinctly remembered is a set of Pendaflex folders with specific plastic label-inserts, like those that I'd received before and had scavenged the label-inserts for some other use, while using the folders for newspaper clippings and souvenirs, but with his box I'm inclined to re-appropriate the labels for the Pendaflex folders, returning them to their original use. Mom is looking over my shoulder as I go through the dozens of "gifts" in this package, and I wonder how many others may be sitting, undelivered, in various company offices that were used to send them to me without strictly supervising the notices to me that they were waiting for me to pick them up. As I type, I realize this dream is akin to another formerly common one: that of opening a drawer and finding a forgotten cache of stamps that I'd bought long ago and filed away, extraordinarily rich in color, variety, and intrinsic worth, full of odd-shaped commemoratives, off-use stamps like postage dues and official stamps, and lots of mint sheets almost stuck together from having not been touched for years.

MONDAY, 7/16/12: 6:41AM: I'm driving up to the hotel in northern Alaska, noting that the large bus isn't parked in front of the hotel, making me think that either they had it moved so it would look more primitive, or the photographer had come up on a special flight that didn't have the ordinary troupe of other tourists on it. Distinct image of the wheels of the taxi crunching through the sparse tracks in the snow on the road.

TUESDAY, 7/17/12: 5:49AM: Someone like Jane Fonda (from her portrayal as the boss's boss in "The Newsroom") is dictating that my ride back to the north of India from the south (somehow a combination from "The Game of Thrones" and my JOYI file) should NOT include my form-breaking writing of a new report about the passage, but she'll reluctantly tolerate it.

THURSDAY, 7/19/12: 7:04AM: Rita, aged about 10, is sitting on my lap in the back of a chauffeur-driven car going south on Broadway, just coming down to 59th Street. I want to make sure that her eyes are on about the same level as mine, so that she can see, out the car windows, just about exactly what I'm looking at. I figure that when she gets a bit older, and taller, that sitting on a pillow will give her a good sightline.

SATURDAY, 7/21/12: 7:26AM: I'm in some foreign city, Paris perhaps, reading a large entertainment newspaper featuring a new movie with a rejuvenated James Caan, fresh and blond, youthful in appearance, seeming to take after Michael(?) Fassbender in showing off his naked body in a new movie, and as I turn the pages of the newspaper, full-spread drawings seem to indicate that he has a rather large penis, depicted at various angles, and I wonder how I can sneak the pages out of this public newspaper for my own souvenirs---or maybe somehow find a copy machine so that I could make a facsimile.

SUNDAY, 7/22/12: 1) 1:15AM: I'm in charge of an experiment for the US military that involves a very powerful explosion generated by the mere movement of an enormous weight over a very small distance---like the width of my bedroom, maybe eight feet at most; the weight is about 3-4-feet thick. I now see a strong similarity to the hunt for the Higgs boson. I've supervised this test a number of times, but when it never worked, the authorities demanded that I show at least ONE example of it, and I manage to do that with an extraordinarily loud explosion that shocks, surprises, and satisfies me very much. Then the "complete" is meticulously set up, with me taking my eyeball to the floor at the initial position to make sure everything is lined up PERFECTLY, and the last test moves the enormous weight to a CHORUS of EARTH-SHATTERING explosions, and I feel TOTALLY vindicated in my faith for my predicted success. 2) 5:01AM: Hundreds of people are gathering for an Actualism banquet, and the organizing team is finishing preparations about half an hour before it starts. A group of students comes in dressed informally, and some compliment me on my silk shirt and tie, and one observes that the air conditioner in the office is on. I don't think it's strange, but the president mentions that it's too cool out for the A/C to be on, and when he takes some article in tomorrow morning he'll check. Others leave our organizing table to attend to various tasks, and I wonder what I'm going to do next.

MONDAY, 7/23/12: 7:54AM: I'm on a tour in a very old small town in Europe, and our group has gathered in what may be an old church to play an ancient card game. We're distributed four cards, then two more, and I don't have any same-number/letter runs of numbers or letters, but I do have three of the same---what might be suit-indicators---symbol in the upper left of the small, flexible card, and I ask if they also qualify for "runs" in the contest. An image of an old church in the middle of a dark forest occurs on a folded sheet of ancient thin paper or parchment. I'm sort of the "odd man out" in this group of semi-strangers.

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