uncontrollable seedlings

ate il vicino at 5, blizzard at 7.30, had a ramen at 10.

(remembered all of this till i stood up)

A dark place, maybe night all the time. A U-shaped house or apartments with a courtyard between. I am sqatting or almost hovering over a slotted seedling tray, all the square cups are empty. But I plant a seed something like a kernel of corn or a sunflower seed. There seems to be an almost immediate reaction, and from a Hens & Chicks sprouts something else, taller. I think of corn. But I don't realize how fast it is spreading. I go explore perhaps, seems there are crawling things here and there, in the shadows, big bugs or mice or something. Someone points out what I have missed, that I have begun a cycle that is expanding too fast, the plants are growing and growing. Spreading outward from my original planting in concentric circles. Each plant buds up and then sprays a black, blood-like mist of spores that begins another generation. This is threatening in its ferocity, but I also think of how much food we could glean. There is something terrible nearby.

(explicit!) naked football with molesty mc jock

(this does get pretty obscene at one point. but all my friends think its hysterical.)

beer night, frontier, chips & cookies.

Muddled. I'm playing or going to play some sort of street ball, but sometimes we're in a street, sometimes we're in an arena, but in any cast there are several different sets of colored lines on the ground for different games. A crew is pulling back some tape , revealing a double black line for our game to follow. Out on Princeton, I think, the old alley house is on the street now, and the houses are high off the street, maybe it's Girard.

There's a kind of hot punk, but his hair is always changing, and seems to be getting bigger and bigger. It's a football game. They kick off, I recieve. Some ugly fake-tanned jock is charging down the street at me, but I easily side-step him. I guess I'm naked now, the guy turns and comes back at me, so I underhand lateral to another teammate and the jock tackles me. He gets me in a lock, one of my legs pulled up against my chest, and he's laughing and I can feel his finger against my butthole and he's trying to stick it in me. I don't particularly want to get fingered by this guy, and I'm very annoyed. I tell him no and to fuck off, but he's just laughing. So i figure fuck it, and start punching him, but I can't get any power in my punches and he keeps on trying to get his finger up my ass. Very aggravating.

working in collections storage

Flo's birthday party: dolmates, spiced rice, cucumber salad, cake, akavit & hamms.

FIrst portion of dream forgotten.

I'm in the back yard, talking over the fence with Missy. A group of guests has just left our house after a few days' stay, and another pair [Sheryl? Jason? someone like that] are going soon. I tell Missy that our house is almost empty, and I'm sure that the relief in my voice carries and that my guests feel like I want to be rid of them, but I feel bad for giving them that impression. It is warm, summery, everything is green and there are flowers.

Bonnie Verardo walks up to me at the gate and says that she's figured out everything except a few last paintings and hangers that she can't match up. She's taped three little boxes-- each ostensibly containing a hanging apparatus-- to a paper-sheet-sized board. These need matching up to their respective paintings. I think we're talking about Patrick Nagatani works, but the actual images are much more like Clinton Adams or Earl Stroh. But I'm fully familiar with the work, as we did a show of these not long ago.

I'm in collections storage, with the three hangers that Bonnie couldn't rectify. The space is a long, narrow room. To my left are a series of Savary-style steel/laminate shelves, to my right are deep, narrow cubbies, maybe more sliding-wall style. All of the paintings are on the steel shelves, and I begin to fish through them. From the style and designs on the hanger boxes, I think I can divine that one is probably from the 60's, one from the 80's, and one maybe from the 90's or even more recent. While looking through, I find a series of large, vaseline-colored paintings on boxy plex constructions. One is positioned terribly, with it's neighbor's edge across its face, I know that it is going to score the surface, and I want to move them all around for better situation.

But then there's this woman in the room with me-- 40's, jeans, vest-- and she wants to have basic "isn't art wonderful" chit chat. She has the aspect of a person casually shopping. I'm frustrated, because I need to get her out of there before I can mess with these paintings. It's sort of an open studio type situation, which I find to be a bad idea. There are other people coming in, too. A man in a denim jacket is pushing a little shopping cart full of translucent, plastic, 3-D capital letters (do they give off light from within themselves?). This is too much. I charge down on him and tell him that he has to take his basket out of the storage area. He looks dumfounded. Why doesn't he respond? What do I need to say to get through? Then I realize that I'm wearing a heavy waterproof pullover jacket thing, and my staff ID is down inside. I rip down the zipper and present my ID, which looks a lot like a Wild Oats name tag, and has hand written info in a form-like format. I take his shopping cart from him, and explain that it can be just outside the door here. He's relieved, I think, but I'm having none of this. This is all a bad idea.