Attending a cult weekend in a big, barracks-like compound that still has charming old-world angled streets. After you arrive you’re given an assigned room to stay in the whole time. Your room is your affiliation, like belonging to a noble house.
I drive an old white Buick to and from the location — it’s one of the most faithful cars I have ever driven in dreams (though never real life). I don’t usually drive “vintage” cars, but I get the comforting sense that I happen to have the perfect temperament to take care of a car like this.
I find parking somewhat close to a workshop where Chicken John is working on a big project repairing an old steam train. From an aerial view, I see that only it’s front fits under the roof. The train, as beautiful as it is, might still be rusting.
On the last day of the event I’m wandering the cobblestone streets of the guest houses. From one of the wide and scenic street corners, I peek into Ani and Sarah’s dorm room, everything laid out like a painting. It feels like everything that’s happened has been longer than it actually was; it’s really just been a few days.
Reveal of the great hall with portraits of old leaders papered over, symbolizing their end of power, missing since their time — that’s how leaders end here. Brad Bramishe type (from the movie Brick) as a “Mitred God” getting covered in gold necklaces and jacket, gradually cast as more corrupted, sacrificed when the group wants a new start. Supposed to be a microcosm of society.
I watch from my bed and catch the neck of a stuffed brontosaurus moving as I wake up and conclude it’s sunlight-based. I have a doll of my college girlfriend Jenna M. and realize I could have sex with it, moving her body around — she’s still in there somehow (like a poppet maybe) and I wouldn’t be doing this if anyone were around and I weren’t already feeling uncaring/nihilistic. It’s useful but not something I’m proud about.
Traveling in group of three to find an ascension exit, like a stairway to the next level. A ruined street running parallel on a slope, maybe like Brooklyn. We reach a potential stairway hidden in a graffitied outbuilding and that’s when my companion chooses to accuse my other companion, the cook, of theft during their cooking. It’s a false accusation but she is expelled and in the next area we can fly.
Riding on a bus, perceiving myself as one of the older ones, observing eternal travails and dramas of the new twenty-somethings. I envy them, despite how obvious and stupid their mistakes. Running into two friends as I move toward the front of the bus.
Overhead tram passing through an indoor art installation. The youth are still going. I am sitting down at yellow paper cafe, at a table with a single foreigner, with menus folded like bread paper bags around vinyl records.