dream 1: maresa's crazy life & landlord

curried butternut squash soup, cranberries, toast, water, a brownie; late night bowl of frosted mini wheats

Going to see Maresa at her new place. (Jason doesn't seem to exist in this world.) She and Sheryl, I think, just got this new place in some apartments up in the hills. Apartments hardly, more like a hillside warren of post-apocalyptic hovels that grow like a spreading fungus. Once I find the place, which isn't easy, it's a ramshackle mountain of clapboard, peeling paint, third rate structural supports, grime. I climb all over, I can't remember how to get to her door, I end up going all the way over the top and down the other side. Literally the whole hill is overgrown with this accreted architecture. I circle back, try again, never leaving the maze that is this place. Sheryl, I think comes and finds me, leads me through, shows me the hairpin turn I missed, up into their apartment. It is yellowed, moth-eaten, the floors are exposed, creaky boards. But they have it lit up like a party and there's colorful junk everywhere. I'm naked and smoking, there's a commotion at the door, they produce hushed shouts that it's the landlord. If he catches anyone smoking in there, they may lose their place. I palm my cigarette and gingerly step around the man, a huge, greasy, hairy thing. I take off, he's after me. Seems like it would be easy to hide here, but he knows the place, and I obviouslty don't.

We all meet back up at a big dance lesson. We are all supposed to be out on the floor-- stlll in this rats nets architectural growth-- dancing. I'm reticent, but for Maresa & Sheryl I give in. The dance instructor, a short, wiry guy hippie with chest hair that is 8 inches long and straight, has everyone sit but me. I'm to be made example of. It's like a gym class nightmare from midschool. He's naked now, and I scan his very uncofmortable body. He wants me to simply "dance," so he can see and point things out. He's inching closer to me, 'till he's right up against me, taunting, and he says "You know what--" his tounge flicks out and disgustingly licks the tip of my nose "--to do." And one across the forehead. Hot, wet, pasty. My arm jams forward and I have a steel grip around his throat. He looks alarmed, his arms waving, scrabbling to get a hold on me, which he ineffectually does. I shove him away. I'm not going to kill a guy at Sheryl's dance lesson, fucking hippie or not.

I dance, he watches, I stop. He gives me a mixed review. But points out that if I was in a room full of dancing people, my performance wouldn't be as noticeable and therefore more acceptable, but he urges me to practice. I remain silent, glad not to be totally trashed by him, but genuinly uninterested in the whole thing.