more fascists, art, and bum assault

mac & cheese with salsa, broccoli, rolls, late night apple dapples

All through this dream, I keep on trying to figure out what shows Alan Tudyk was in.

Hanging out in a space somewhat like the old Mongomery Plaza theater entrance, downstairs. Inside a storefront type space are these hanging sculpted figures, like characters from Guernica, made of wire and metal. The figures are hung in three concentric circles, light from the center, they cast layered shadows on the walls. Fascists have defaced the sculptures, mainly with spraypaint, but since they are mostly bits and wire, it has only a subtle effect. But there are many of us here to rally to the artist's side. The artist, Pablo Neruda it seems, returns to repair his work, we all file inside to help and support.

Maresa and some other women, draped in shawls and such, begin a sensual dance in the center of the circles. I begin to chant, "You can't get none if you ain't got bun [singluar] hon." They think they really "have it." The central sculptural figures, all around us, are like sea creatures, like jellfish or portugese men o war. They're made of large cans that have been spirally shredded.

The space is now a bookstore, apparently, too. I'm sitting up on a counter, laying back against a wall, reading Voices Against Tyranny. Josh pops up from below the counter, mischevious. He's going to "tickle" me, aka goose my ass with his thumb. I'm absolutely furious, humiliated, and he won't leave me alone. I kick at him, meaning to knock him on his ass.

I woke up when my foot in real life hit Ixopo and sent her flying off the bed.