Dream Journal

Happy Headstands in Middle of the Night

It’s my day off and I’m wandering my rainy neighborhood in my socks. The seller of the motorcycle I want (who is also Daenerys) goes to the corner of Z and 24th to mourn; I go to Z and 26th — a clever move, somehow. In an older part of the neighborhood, walking through a park split into three paths, I do somersaults while the rain continues, landing on my head and balancing. I resemble a Hindu god.

I come to a bus stop. I’m stopped by cops, and turn upside down on my head to talk with them, almost daring them to find fault with it. A guy saying his name is John is asking the annoying questions to me and others on the sidewalk, while cops in the car shine a bright light. Confronting him on the pathway, I begin asking him if he is officially working with them yet he refuses to answer. I say I that in that case have to make phone call to 911, and he scurries away!

Back inside my strange two-story house, with no one around, I lucidly float upstairs with a flick of my wrist. Catching sight of my silhouette, I think “this is what I was born for. This is what I want, what I like, not what I think other people think I should like.” Upstairs there are oversized shelves with letters spelling a festive message, a big round clock, a scene of years of use. I recall my mom had them when I grew up, and no one has seen fit to clean them fully. Thus, the warm, fond, grimy patina of time.

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