Awoken by Absurdity

On my way to work I was listening to some Portuguese music. I arrived at the Gold Card Cafe and learned the word for the feeling just before your abuser's first blow hits you, heire. It was woven into a thick, navy blue band, a gaudy hippie-like necklace, with metallic lettering. Mrs. Davis, the librarian, said it was not like me to wear such things. I said I often don't do things because people would be surprised and it would be too much trouble to deal. I asked Mrs. Davis why the cooks here no longer did short-orders. The scene fades to my old middle school. My grandma was a teacher. My class was going to give her a birthday gift, washing powders. I had to go to an ATM and get some money to chip in, though I knew she wouldn't want a present. My grandma came and got me out of class. She took me to an outdoor airport lounge. Suddenly I'm sitting at my mother's feet as she mails some holiday greeting cards. The envelopes are gritty from washing powders. My mother talks about postage. I look over to a picturesque scene of a brown brick courtyard. Two bishops were discussing the twin gospels of John and why to use them when refuting heretics. One bishop was plump and good, the other withered and evil. They seemed to be adversaries but the situation would never come to blows between them. They began to whisper about Nazis. The good bishop picks up a large key and is about to open a tall wrought-iron gate when I awake.


In a bar, Matt and his mom offer me some pot. We go to smoke it and then Matt and I are in a roller coaster cart. Our closeness excites me more than the ride itself which is rambling through NY's MoMA. Matt reveals to me that I have a son. My son is a continually morphing character with diabetes changing from babe to adolescent and then back again several times. Matt and I are back in the bar and confiding when the patrons have to leave for the filming of a milk commercial/art piece. A woman who is both me and being observed by me fills the bar's bathroom floor with three inches of milk. She/I then dance around splashing the white liquid all about. The scene changes again revealing a plot to kill my son, but the absurdity of the dream wakes me leaving me bewildered.

after 0900
Atmosphere: Sexually charged on a brisk autumn night