Saturday, December 30, 2017


Here’s a dream from last night.

Charlie and I temporarily live in a small apartment on the third floor, just above the tree line, with windows on three walls. We look over an open patio/hallway on the second level below, lined with bookcases and desks, exposed to the elements. It’s unclear to me if this is a private office or a public area, as it opens onto the street.

Charlie is away for the day. A man suggests I open a male brothel to operate while she’s out. I’m unsure of the idea, but succumb to his adamancy. He recruits a half dozen dwarves. They roam the apartment nude. I have to eject one, who is handsome yet disruptive. Another is very eager for me to fuck him. He curls before me like a roly-poly, tucking away his arms and legs. I resist, as I don’t think I should fuck him. I finger his ass, which splashes shit onto my hand and floor. I feel pity and suggest he should wash up. He returns and I tuck him under my shirt, unsure whether or not I’m fucking him, but allowing others to think I am. Only then do I notice he’s missing his left hand.

He’s left a mess in the bathroom. I begin to clean when I find him cowering in a corner of the shower. Pope Francis tells me that he is a traumatized war refugee. I feel more pity. I tell him he’s safe here; I won’t make him leave like the disruptive one. Francis becomes disgusted by the shit and excuses himself. The refugee is now my responsibility.

I’m walking through the open patio/hallway. The office workers make me feel unwelcome, though I feel this is a public area, and owe no apologies.

My dad sends a video to my phone. He’s chauffeuring Warhol, Bowie, Mapplethorpe, William S. Burroughs and Patti Smith; Smith is nodding on drugs. They’re on their way to an amusement park in the 1970s. They look like kids, I think, before realizing I’m strapped to the front of the moving car. I’m happy there.

I’m at a venue showing the footage of a “secret concert.” I’ve seen the film before. Now, the surviving performers are assembled for a dinner. I see Chrissie Hynde, whom I’d forgotten to be in the concert, and Patti Smith. She was in the car, I recall, and the only passenger still living.

I begin to draw two larger-than-life figures in charcoal. They are seen from about mid-waist and loom menacingly. There’s not much detail in the figures. I obscure them further with heavier, darker lines. The act of drawing feels cathartic.

Liz and I are going to an art reception in upper Manhattan. The area has changed since I was last here, long ago. Liz tells me she is transitioning, and I thank her for letting me know. We leave the reception with Patti Smith. She’s talking about my drawing, saying that if it hurts, I should keep doing it. Listening prevents me from speaking to Liz, who has advanced ahead of us. She’s taken off her shirt to show she’s very well muscled. She’s at the top of a hill, but going along a disused road. I call her back, saying there’s a better road ahead.

No comments: