Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I’m aware that I need to have a dream. I think I can fake it with materials I have in my car, including a brochure for a nudist camp. I can use it to create a fictional person. I’ll say I had a dream about him, but he refused to do anything. He’ll be this inactive person, doing nothing. I imagine he’ll have dark curly hair and be about forty years old. But first, I need to move my car, where I can retrieve the brochure.

There’s a young man in the back seat of my car. I greet him and then ignore him as I go about searching for the brochure. I don’t want him to know I’m going to fake a dream. My car is in a back alley behind a service station. It would be easier to leave it there but it needs to be moved. I walk around, looking for a parking space. I come across a photo booth store where kids get videos made. I watch for a while as kids make goofy faces; I’m watching on a monitor outside.

I enter an area with old couches and benches. A few men are talking about a woman they know in common. She’s associated with the video store. As they talk, I realize she’s a sex worker. They’re enthralled by her and begin to try interesting me. I excuse myself by saying I need to move my car. I’m also aware of needing to fake a dream. I now have the brochure in my hand.

I don’t find a parking space as I walk. I decide to get the car and take my chances. The car is a Chevette I drove in high school. The young man is no longer in the car. I drive around a bend into a suburban area. I arrive at my childhood home and park in front. I’m in a buoyant mood, singing Elvis Costello “Accidents Will Happen.” I encounter a woman who is also singing.

I enter the house. There are many people and I belong here. There are several nude teenage girls. I kiss them each hello. The house is a kind of brothel where we’re all sex workers. It feels very relaxed.

Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I share a dorm room with three other guys, one of whom is my brother. It’s a small, narrow room with bunk beds, cluttered with stuff and trash. I think of cleaning the room, but in fact, I’m comfortable. It feels easy to live in a squalor we all appreciate.

One of my roommates has tied an older man against a wall. The man is stripped to his underwear and blindfolded. I recognize that he’s a john. It seems unwise that my roommate is hustling on campus, in front of our roommates, with the door open to passersby. Still, no one seems to mind the scene or realize that it’s for pay. I hover nearby, ready to help if needed, and to act as a lookout. I want to keep this cool.

Suddenly, my roommate has pulled out his dick to urinate on the bound john, who revels in the stream of piss. That’s a step too far. I realize there are kids in the room, and I don’t want my brother to notice this. I suggest cleaning up by way of distraction. I find piles of Mardi Gras beads. I ask the kids to help me sort them by size and color, telling them they can keep whatever they like, or use them to decorate the room. The pissing scene goes unnoticed; I begin to pick up trash and pizza boxes.

Across campus is a daily outdoor performance of Jesus Christ Superstar. I’m familiar with the performance and sometimes step in an as extra. I arrive during the scene of the moneychangers in the temple. I watch for a bit then join in the chorus. There are many new students watching. I’m comfortable in this role, showing a cool thing about campus life. The song is catchy and I’m casual in my part. As the scene ends with Jesus screaming “Get out!,” I wander off, planning to return for the crucifixion. I return with a long piece of CVC pipe to use as a percussion instrument. I’m no longer in street clothes, but in a sheet fitted as a robe. It’s an informal nod to costuming. I decide to stand as a Roman guard. I’m casually drumming, unconcerned with the beat. I’m not really trying.

I’m watching the lead performer, who is also conductor, waiting to cue the chorus. I realize he’s waiting for air traffic to clear overhead. I look up. A plane passes. I ready as its noise fades, only to see other air vessels in the sky. One is a kind of hologram, a blimp trailing cartoon characters in the clouds. Everyone stands watching, entranced, with our performance on hold. I began to think I should take this role seriously. What would a Roman guard be thinking and feeling in this moment? I stand as if asleep on my feet, holding myself upright with my pipe, now used as a post. My eyes roll back in my head. My mind wanders back to the moneychangers theme. 

Dream

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.