In a complex, a restaurant portion thereof, with all sorts of hidden doors. I can’t see them as I haven’t been initiated and attained a certain level, but I can tell from others facial expressions they can. There are multiple Sansa Starks, one of which joins me on a bed that has a slow water drip on it.
Side note, mostly unrelated: the squirrel is my favorite character in Lord of the Rings.
Riding my scooter on the freeway south down the coast of Monterey, CA, with my wife riding another motorcycle alongside. We pass the skinniest Costco I’ve ever seen, with a parking lot running adjacent to the roadside. Just after passing it, I notice my backpack has fallen off. This has been a fear for awhile. I can see where it is and, seeing no better option, I begin driving backwards along the shoulder. Some cars let me pass on the left, some on the right. I make it there and I’m relieved to see it’s held together, although it’s obviously been flattened and run over a few times. I don’t remember everything I had in there, but I know there’s a few things that probably survived, definitely not my croissants though.
Taking a ride to the airport, the doors to the bus open twice. I get out on an empty platform, embarrassed as the train speeds away. End up having to walk a long way to baggage claim, a tiny beige room in a spare building.
Girl on the landing between two stairways giving a blowjob. She has the guy stab her butt, then fuck the stab.
She then loads my dishwasher with dozens of blue glass jug vessels, careful they don’t rattle.
On the couch and there’s an orange cat in my lap. Reminds me of Flop! Rat cage is open though. It turns into two black cats, like Aloysius unfortunately. I call Lynae to come help.
My brother Patrick has his Mac break. He has to buy a new PC and is humorously says and condescending about it.
A girl with dreadlocks is naked in a dark public bathroom. There’s a vibe of fun menace, but I’m not sure if it’s from her or to her.
Camping on the beach. Takes forever to pack up leaving at nightfall. Picking up my cousin Spencer from somewhere. My colorful vape tip, which I’ve lost many times, rolls under the couch. I find it alongside a clarinet mouthpiece.
I’m climbing up a Statue of Liberty — a fat Statue of Liberty, which may or may not be someone’s art project. Very shortly after, I’m going through a security checkpoint. I look at my ID through a paper towel on a desk, the bath towel around my waist falls off and I ask Lynae help me. I end up falling on my ass, but it’s damn funny so I don’t mind.
While still waiting in line, Chinese-speaking ladies are like “oh good he’s south Chinese!” and starting asking me about dinnerware. I answer by going on a little pontification about sentimentality, and veer into a dissertation about a gravy boat my mom hand-chipped when she was six years old.
A large model of gray naval ship, as long as two men. I’m escorting it by swimming beside it, against a kind of curb, within a twilight concrete jungle. My companion demonstrates how the bow of the ship, even in gentle water on our floating wooden slat platform, vibrates so profoundly that it’s genuinely unsafe and unusable — why it’s being retired.
I’m revisiting Melbourne, Australia and meet a girl. She wears a dark-haired ponytail and is strange and energetic, youthfully careless but with an edge of urbane worldliness. We have an adventure preforming the mundane task of buying subway fare, semi-drunkenly carousing in a grotty, rowdy corner shop. We end up asleep near a rocky beach somewhere down the subway line. She’d neglected to tell me I had to clock out from the ride (of which I remember nothing) and I’m worried that, on account of it being so long after, all my credit is now expended. She languidly reassures me, no, the maximum is one day… I take it we’ve been on the beach at least overnight.
Later, I’m staying again at the last hostel I stayed when I was there. I remember thinking that I should have chosen The Friendlies, which was my favorite. This one has tall sunny glass walls in the guest lobby, and quite a drinking culture. Reminiscent of the Gold Coast in Queensland, or Florida. A Scottish guy, or maybe just someone doing a raucous impression of one, proves his drunkenness by head-butting a glass table. Not content with simply cracking it, he continues head-butting until the entire countertop of the hostel is smashed. Guy is now quite covered in blood and his friends take him away.
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.
Jon Snow has been killed off. He’s brought back (necromancy) and now has magic powers. Guards rush at him standing on stone steps, and the visual effects are lame-looking drawn on stars, four of them, which fly out and teleport the guards about to attack him. Looks like the flag of Chicago. Ugh, the show really stopped trying.
Watching motorbikes race in a slope-walled mud course — reminds me of running the hose when playing in the sand as a kid. One scooter-looking motorbike driving round a curve gets it’s throttle stuck; the rider loses control and it jumps the fence into the neighborhood nearby. It runs up a hill street and hits a couple cars along the way, smashing into the side of one, which causes the Buick behind it to flip backwards down the hill. Seems expensive, and I’ve no idea who will pay for it. I read the web address monterey.com/’91 (with the apostrophe) and understand this to be a historical event at Monterey, California.
A circular redwood half-height room with Lynae lying in a bathtub in the center. I’m telling a story of some kind.
Fixing the glue on some top floor gutters, trying not to get caught by landlord. Watching buildings next door tumble into place. Buying four oranges out of a vending machine with quarters for someone else, before a trip. Serving a pie baked with a top layer of elegant crinkled-edge blue felt.
Working to fix a boat on a rickety dock with two levels, like scaffolding.
Inside a house is a light switch specifically installed to call a repairman when pressed. I know because I pressed it.