Monday, January 31, 2005

1960s Danish Modern

Nearly lucid dream...

I “wake up” in this dream to find myself living in a huge apartment building. It’s a rambling, white structure about eight stories high, forming a long zigzag shape across a suburban landscape - a park-like setting, a little too manicured for my tastes. The architectural style is Bauhaus - a clean, sterile, early 20th century deco. It’s a little run down.

My apartment is on an upper floor - not the very top, maybe six floors up. KF and JB are here to help me move. We’re packing up boxes and I’m looking out the window, daydreaming. Suddenly, I clearly realize that I’m dreaming (I even rearrange the pillows in my bed and mutter something like, “damnit.”... I’m annoyed and think, “I don’t want to work now, OK?... just sleep”).

As I stare down several floors to the ground, I vaguely consider launching myself through the window for a little flying lesson. I want to fly through the window and soar - and I know I won’t fall if I do. But I’m too chicken to try it.

Then I’m asleep again and the lucid feeling is gone. I’m just dreaming. It’s hard to describe the difference. I decide to go downstairs to check up on an elderly couple I know (not in my waking world, but I knew them here in the dream time). I care about them, and I want to make sure they’re OK.

I set off along these endless corridors. I walk past a public area on this floor, with a small movie theatre and a laundromat. There’s a cop or security guard there, a burly man in a dark blue/black uniform. I notice that a trash can is on fire... something smoldering in it... and I say to him, “Look! There’s a fire!” He says it’s no big deal, it’ll burn itself out. “Happens all the time,” he says. This annoys the hell out of me - like, he’s not doing his job. I put it out myself, by pouring melted ice into the trash can from a paper soft drink cup somebody left on a beat-up formica counter. The fire sizzles, belches out a cloud of smoke, and sputters out. As I walk away, I look back at the guard and think, “What a jerk.”

I take a nearby elevator down several floors to the elderly couple’s apartment. I distinctly remember pressing the “down” arrow and watching it light up... and once again, I realize I’m dreaming. I can feel, smell, and see the scene the same way I do in the waking world. It just lasts a second and then I’m asleep again.

The elderly couple is moving too - shutting down their home of many years to move into a retirement community. They’re getting rid of a bunch of old stuff. They ask me if I want to go to the basement. That’s where they store a bunch of stuff they don’t need. They tell me I can take whatever I want.

Their basement storage area has a workbench with a bunch of dusty old tools, geegaws, and nondescript doodads - a place where the old gentleman used to tinker and fix things. The ceiling is a typical basement ceiling - all beams, bare light bulbs, wires, and furnace ducts. It feels close and heavy. The floor is concrete, painted in chipped, gray enamel... still shining, but worn. It’s clean and dust free. At the back of the room, I see a jumble of old furniture. It’s mostly worthless junk... except for this great chair. It’s orange, 1960s Danish modern, with a matching ottoman - and it’s in perfect condition - like something out of a time capsule.

I’ve always liked 1960s kitch, so I’m drawn to this chair. “Oh, that old thing?” says the old gentleman. “We never used it. It’s been here for years. You want it?” Once again I realize I’m dreaming... and I think, “They have no idea what this is worth. I could sell this on eBay and make a ton of money. But how can I get it out of here?” I wonder if I should tell them that it’s valuable - or just take it. A moral dilemma.

Then I’m dreaming again - and KF and JB are back. I point to the chair and say to them, “Isn’t it amazing?” They agree - and then I really wake up. It takes almost an hour to get back to sleep.


I don’t have this sort of nearly lucid experience very often. When I do, I shake for a while afterwards, and drop things or walk into doorways. I’m disoriented - like, reconnecting my physical body to the other circuits in this universe is a lot of work that I don’t want to do. I’m famished. I pad downstairs to the kitchen and eat a whole can of tuna - washing it down with big gulps of milk, right from the carton - lit by the bare bulb inside my refrigerator.

I’m annoyed and worn out. I just want a good night’s sleep - with everything shut down for a while. Sometimes I think I’m going nuts. The rest of the night, I sleep heavily and remember no dreams. I wake up around noon - tired, sore, and a little depressed.

Sunday, January 30, 2005

68.94 Miles

Part of a much longer dream...

I’m at my folk's house (but it’s not their waking world house). Things have been very stressful since Dad passed away and this visit isn’t going well. I snap at Mom about something and feel bad about it. She says it’s OK and I say, “I need to get out of here for a while.”

I decide to take their car and drive in to town. It’s a big, dark copper color Lincoln town car with a gray leather interior. I’m backing it out of a wide, three car, tudor style garage - like an old fashioned carriage house - with three arched garage doors. I can’t find the door opener button on the dashboard. Two of the doors are shut and the only one that’s open is blocked by my sister’s car - which ticks me off. I think, “Why on earth would she block the only open door?”

I somehow get the car out of the garage - don’t remember how - and I’m driving along a wooded lane with my friend Rick C. I can’t remember how he ended up in the car. We’re driving up a long hill on a hazy morning... not foggy, just hazy, spring sunlight. It’s a two lane parkway with a wide median... one lane for traffic going up, one lane for traffic coming down. We get about halfway up the hill and find a turnoff where you can turn around to come back down. I pull off to turn around and tell Rick that I’ll ride my bike from here - try to get in a nice bike ride. Somehow, my bike’s in the trunk, I'm wearing my helmet and bike togs, and Rick is gone. I’m going to meet him later at a bar downtown.

Riding down the hill is nice at first - it’s always more fun to coast down a long hill than to climb one. The road is smooth and newly paved in black asphalt. It’s slightly wet and shiny, like after a recent rain. But the road isn't slick and I’m peddling strong and fast. I round a curve to the right - banking deeply into a small town. Suddenly, the road is full of pedestrians and I slow down quickly to navigate around them. It’s like some sort of street fair or something.

Some guy on a bike has peddled up behind me, talking on his cell phone. I’m becoming annoyed with the crowd... it’s like people are completely blind to where they are and who’s around them. They’re oblivious to me and each other, wandering along, getting in the way. I’m especially annoyed with the guy on the cell phone. I tell him I do not want to hear his chatter. “Why are you talking on the phone while you ride?” I slow down and let him pass me.

As I leave the little town, the road opens up again and I’m able to enjoy the ride. I’m nearly at the bottom of the hill. I round another curve and find a covered gatehouse. I ride in. It’s old, wooden - like a covered bridge with heavy beams - and it smells nice, like cedar. There’s a small blue and yellow neon sign that says “Louisville Cycle Club.” On the other side of the gatehouse is a sort of open air shopping mall... lots of shops and other buildings connected to each other, rambling up the side of the hill.

My phone rings. It’s Rick. He tells me he’s in the old section of town, at the bar where we’re going to meet. “How’s your bike ride?”

“Pretty good,” I reply. I look down at my bike computer (a little odometer and clock, like the one on my waking world bike). I say, “I managed to get in about 70 miles... 68.94 miles. Where are you?”

“I’m up in the second tier.”

“OK, I’ll see you soon.”

I ride a little way back up the hill, along sidewalks in this mall, and into the lobby of a hospital. It’s a shortcut to the bar. I get a little lost riding in the plain beige corridors and ask a nurse for directions to an elevator. She points around a corner, where I find two elevators with glass walls looking out of the building. They’re impossibly fancy and modern, black leather airliner seats lining the glass walls. The other walls are red. The first elevator is full, so I ride into the second one.

My bike has disappeared and I sit in one of the black leather airline seats. There are a few other people in the elevator, including Rick. We start to descend and I say, “I HATE elevators. They scare me.” The elevator drops fast and I hold on tight. At the ground floor, the elevator makes a sharp, stomach wrenching turn and is suddenly moving horizontally along a curved pair of red metal tracks - like railroad tracks, but bigger. It occurs to me that this is more like a theme park ride than an elevator.

We get to the end of the ride and are deposited on an empty city street near a bus stop. The bar is only a few blocks away, but Rick wanders off with some girl he picked up in the elevator. She giggles a lot and I get the feeling that she's probably rather stupid. She has sandy blonde hair and wears a yellow and gray striped tube top.

I suddenly remember that I left the car up at the turnoff. I’ll need to ride back up the hill to retrieve it. I wonder where my bike is.

Saturday, January 22, 2005

Endless Rooms

Bad flu fever dream...

I was at a party or some sort of gathering at a fancy mansion owned by a family I knew - or maybe it was my family, but not the family from my waking life. It was nighttime and the mansion was brightly lit.

The place was immense... impossibly so. The rooms went on and on... endless rooms. I didn’t much care for the style. It was that cluttered, busy, gilt, baroque stuff that some wealthy people seem to favor. Acres of flocked wallpaper, heavily carved furniture in dark woods, gold leaf everywhere, gold colored carpet. A little threadbare, but clean. I found the whole place rather bloated, cold, and pretentious.

At one point we were all supposed to do something important... find something. I can’t remember exactly what. It had to do with a daughter in this family who had been recently murdered. I set off alone to look for whatever we were all looking for.

I wandered and wondered. It would take hours to write what all the rooms looked like, but I remember one suite that was very nice. Comfortable. Lots of windows and light; nice postmodern design. I remember thinking J would love to live here... it was just his style... except for the kitchen, which was crumbling, dark, and much too small for a good cook to spread out and really work.

I was in a high sort of attic or loft space where I found one more of many bedrooms and suites. It was dark here and I fumbled for a light switch.

This room was different. The decor was retro 1950s atomic age modern. The colors were simpler, mostly tans and beige with darker accents in warm browns and black. The furniture was spare and geometric. The carpet was off-white and the whole effect was almost Japanese.

I rounded a corner, walked down a short hallway, found some stairs, and climbed them. I was in another sort of loft above the main suite. It was the only room that wasn’t kept clean by the staff. It was dusty and smelled closed and stuffy... like rooms smell when you’ve been away for a long time. There was some clothing tossed on a chair that was upholstered in a simple tan and white striped fabric - just tossed there - and a pair of silk stockings on the floor at the foot of the chair - as though a woman had undressed and tossed them there, knowing the staff would take care of them later.

I suddenly realized that these rooms belonged to the dead girl - the murdered girl - and I wondered if the staff had been instructed not to move anything... you know, the “leave it just as it was” thing cops do at a crime scene. This loft was the girl’s private sanctuary - a place where she could escape the heavy decoration and formality of the other rooms. There was a real good stereo, some books, trinkets and remembrances - two caged love birds in a corner. I was surprised that they were alive, but noticed they had fresh water and seeds - I figured somebody was still taking care of them and thought, “these birds shouldn’t be left alone up here... they need to be around people and activity or they’ll go nuts.”

I found a plate or platter on a coffee table. It was in black enameled metal, covered with a classical Greek motif of men having sex. I decided to steal it. I had been carrying my portfolio with me the whole time, but it wasn’t my regular portfolio... it was made of tattered white cardboard, held together with masking tape (in the waking world, I keep my larger artwork in a fairly nice black portfolio). I slipped the plate into the portfolio and quickly left these rooms.

On my way back down to the main rooms, I got completely lost. I was in a long, windowless, unlit hallway with red flocked wallpaper and rough wooden plank flooring (hmmm... walking the plank). I was beginning to panic. I called out for help over and over, but the house was so big, and I was so far off the beaten trail, that nobody could hear me. At one point, I left my artwork and my stolen treasure behind as I fumbled around looking for a way out.

Eventually I found a little stairway that led down to a main upstairs hallway. There were five men doing restoration work in a side room - shirtless carpenters with tool belts, wearing jeans. I had seen them earlier and they didn’t like me, so I didn’t speak to them. I found the head housekeeper walking down the hall toward me. She was a matronly woman who had been in service at this house for years. Everybody respected her and some family members even loved her. I was so glad to see her, I literally fell to me knees.

“I got lost!” I cried. “I was upstairs and I found her [the dead girl's] rooms and then I got lost and couldn’t get back! I have to go back for my art.” I didn’t mention my theft.

We walked to a sort of linen or storage closet, because the housekeeper wanted to give me a flashlight stored there. We couldn’t find it, but we did find one of those emergency lights you see sometimes... the ones with a battery pack that you plug into a wall outlet so there’s a light source if the power fails.

I took it and returned up some rickety stairs to the red hallway. It was even more immense than before - in the feeble glow of this emergency light, I could see that it stretched away for what seemed like forever. There was carpet on the floor this time, dark red with gold speckles in it that glittered off into the distance.

I woke up.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Elephant Drawing

...I was looking at a drawing of an elephant. It was like an illustration in a zoology book, very straightforward and realistic. The line work was black and the skin was printed in a light brown. The animal was drawn in profile. I looked at the trunk and big flappy ears and wondered what a person who'd never seen an elephant might think of it. I thought, "If you made this stuff up, no one would believe it."

When I woke up, I remembered that Bush and the elephant Republicans are having a big party in DC today, while a war built on lies rages on. Right. If you made this stuff up, no one would believe it.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Skull in the Bathroom

Long dream in three parts:

1) I was visiting my parents home. The whole family had gathered... flown in from all over the country. I had spent a lot of time working on the garden, making sure everything was well-watered and pretty. I remember thinking that all the work I’d done wouldn’t matter if the garden was left to bake in the sun after I went home.

I was in the family room and the curtains were drawn - heavy, dark red velvet curtains that blocked out most of the light. As I drew them back to let in light from the garden, I noticed an electrical outlet on the wall next to the French doors leading outside. The outlet was crammed full of extension chords and those adapters that let you plug more than one chord into an outlet. It was a tangle of chords - way too many for the outlet to safely service. My Dad was usually careful about this sort of fire hazard and I remember thinking it was unlike him to do something so unsafe.

There was a phone call about some mess-up with my return ticket home... but I sorted it out through a different travel agent or ticket service from the one I normally use. My original plane ticket was going to cost $500, but the new ticket was only going to cost $175. The only problem was that it wouldn’t be a direct flight... I’d have a long layover in Portland, Oregon, before I could make it back to Sacramento. It was completely out of the way, but cheaper. My Dad thought I was wasting a lot of time just to save a little money. This baffled me because Dad wouldn’t normally say something like that. He was usually very thrifty - and would put up with a little inconvenience to save a little money. I said, “Eight hours or six hours... what’s the difference, Dad? You’re never more than eight hours away from anyplace.”


The scene changed - I think I woke up a little, then slept again.

2) I was getting ready to move into a big, run-down old house a bunch of people shared. I decided to clean an upstairs bathroom. It was a good room, with one of those big antique claw-foot bathtubs I like. The room was dusty and dirty... not filthy, mostly just unkempt. I wanted to clean it so I could use it comfortably.

There was a long shelf to the left of the sink, running down a wall to a little alcove with a window. The shelf and window sill were full of little collectibles that various tenants had placed there over the years. Mostly candles, but also little statues and junky knickknacks. They were all jumbled together, covered in cobwebs. One candle I remember was shaped like the Empire State Building with a wick on top. I overheard someone in another room saying, “We get all this stuff real cheap from the boutique downstairs.” The voice was RC (a waking life friend from a long time ago).

The window sill knickknacks were different from the ones on the shelf. Better quality and placed in an almost reverent manner, as though on an alter. There were brass ornaments, mostly, surrounded by candles. The centerpiece was one of those brass Shiva goddess figurines. It was made out of brass bones and the Shiva’s head was a large skull - all out of proportion to the rest of her body.

I suddenly had to use the toilet. As I sat down, MM barged into the room (an acquaintance who, in my waking life, sold me a classic 1960s English touring bicycle I love to ride). I quickly yelled, “Occupied! This bathroom is occupied!” He was embarrassed. Suddenly, we heard this commotion outside the window... down in the street below. I stood up, pulled up my pants, and we looked outside. There was a demonstration or rally moving down the street. I went downstairs to see what the hubbub was all about.


I think I woke up a little again, but the dream picked right back up as soon as I was soundly sleeping.

3) The demonstration led from our old neighborhood to a sort of campus. The campus had been founded by Elvis Presley as a sanctuary for people who had drug and alcohol problems... a place where they could learn about and overcome addiction. The campus buildings were fairly nice in a polite, milk toast way... sort of fake suburban tutor. The roofs were cheap brown tarpaper, which surprised me... they seemed to bring the stature of the whole campus down a few notches, in my opinion. I said to someone, “Did he really pay for this whole place out of his recording fortune?” “Sure did,” was the reply.

The demonstrators were all earnest college-age kids, holding signs and chanting slogans about freedom and justice. The kids were sort of glassy-eyed and blissful, like born-again Christians... like members of any cult that thinks it has an exclusive on the meaning of life.

I’m not sure how it happened, but I suddenly realized that I was the Dean of this campus... and I was a Victorian woman, dressed in a long tan skirt, high-button shoes, a white blouse tightly buttoned to its high, lace collar. I had my hair piled on top of my head, the way women of that era wore their hair.

The campus was being shut down by the police for some reason. There was something about this campus being an illegal cult with subversive intent. I was holding a baby in my arms as I approached two officers who were sitting on a porch swing in the white, ornate front entrance to the main administration building. One officer was in charge of the police action and the other was his deputy. I said to the officer in charge, “I’ve been thinking about this a great deal and I’ve made a decision. Go ahead. Shut it all down. Take all of these people into custody.”

The crowd gasped and fell silent. One student near me said, “You’d do that? You’d sacrifice us all?” His name was Perry O’Dontis (an obvious word play).

“Yes, Perry, I would,” I replied in a soft, even voice. “It’s for the greater good. I am a victim of third-degree clarity.”


The phone rang and I woke up, troubled and exhausted. I need a good night’s sleep, with no pesky dreams.

Two Old Junkyard Ladies

I worked at a business that was a sort of hybrid junkyard and nature reserve for this particularly rare species of grass - like, an endangered species of pampas grass. It was about three feet tall, with long-stemmed seed flowers that looked like bottle brush cleaners. There was only one example of it, looking rather dusty and forlorn at the entrance to the reserve. The rest of the reserve consisted of a circular, unpaved drive made of broken concrete and gray gravel that crunched under your feet. The whole place was filled with junked cars in various states of having their guts and sheet metal ripped out and recycled.

I walked along the drive and saw an old man working... bent over, under the hood of a mid-1970s Chevy Malibu. I thought, “you could lose yourself in here.” A little further along, I met two nice old ladies wearing flowered print dresses. We talked about the grass at the entrance and exchanged pleasantries... and although we were standing in a junkyard, it didn’t seem at all odd.

The scene changed, and I was walking home. I had found this odd contraption - more junk - made out of a big glass bottle, clear plastic hoses, and other assorted doodads. I don’t remember what it was for, but I told my Mom (I met her along the street) that it was a still (for making alcohol). I was telling her a lie, because I knew it wasn’t a still. Although I can’t remember what it was really for, I remember thinking that she’d be angry about it. So, I lied and said it was a still. Telling the lie made this thing give off chemical fumes that made me feel giddy and drunk.

The scene changed again and I was working in an office with my friend JS. We were starting a new company and designing its corporate headquarters. The building was to be the Tallest Building In The World. We were making mockups of it out of old cardboard cereal boxes. We were trying to choose between two different patterns for the exterior window frames. One was a series of rectangles. The other was a series of crosses (I drew both patterns when I woke up). We were waiting forever for a print of the patterns to print on a laser printer. I said something sarcastic, like, “Well, of course we have to wait - the printer here runs at the blistering speed of 80 MHz.”

We wanted to paste the prints onto the cereal boxes to see what the building would look like. There was a logo over the front door of the mockup that said “Artist Access.”

Poached Eggs for Stanley Kubrick

Part of a much longer dream:

I was some sort of spy on a mission (I was even wearing a classic cliché trench coat). I was in the back of a commercial airliner, waiting for takeoff. The main passenger cabin was in front of me and I was sitting in a windowless galley area that had three seats.

This cabin was gray and cheerless. The main cabin, beyond a bulkhead in front of me, was light and airy - windows at every seat and lots of bright, direct sunlight. There were little tables in front of each seat, more like the tables on a train than the fold-down trays on an airliner. The plane was a little smaller than a Boeing 737, with maybe 100 seats in all. It was nearly full; just a few empty seats. People were chatting, playing cards at their tables, reading books. It was pleasant and relaxed.

Stanley Kubrick (the film director who made “2001: A Space Odyssey” and who, in the waking world, died a few years ago) was in the second row from the front, on the left. There was a slight buzz of excitement among the passengers at having a celebrity on board.

The plane taxied out onto the runway, climbing smoothly and powerfully into the air, banking sharply, but not uncomfortably, to the left.

A little girl with long brown hair, wearing a T-shirt with wide, vertical red and white stripes, came into the galley area and began preparing a breakfast tray. She was very intent and focused... in the way children often are when they’re concentrating on a grown-up task.

“What are you doing?” I asked cheerfully, grateful for someone to talk to. “I’m making breakfast for Mr. Kubrick,” she replied brightly. “It’s a surprise,” she added in a mischievous half-whisper, as though letting me in on a secret.

She began making poached eggs on toast. She used a round cookie cutter to remove the center of a slice of white bread, leaving a hole in it that was just the right size for an egg. She pulled a small rubber stamp from her pocket and printed something on the leftover piece of bread (the round piece left over from when she made a hole in the main slice). She was careful not to crush the bread when she stamped it. She held it up for me.

“See? That’s the garnish.”

“Oh! That’s so sweet!” I beamed.

The little piece of bread had an “S” on it...

Chicken Little's Event Horizon

I was holding this odd pair of binoculars. Each lens, and the "handle" you held them with, were made out of 3 floating metal disks that reflected and held the sky. They worked like a combination kaleidoscope and telescope. I was sitting on the edge of the bed in Paul's old apartment. I remember his purple bedspread. We were laughing...

"Look, Paul, look! The sky is falling!!" It just cracked us up for some reason... I was smiling when I woke up.


Inauguration Maps

I’m going to the Presidential inauguration, which is being held in this sprawling, well-manicured park. I’m supposed to stand on a particular street in this park to watch the parade go by, but I can’t find the street. Its name begins with the name of a neighborhood in the SF East Bay... can’t remember it now but it sounds like “Modesto.” I see a cop, wave to her, and ask if she knows where the street is. She’s a short, portly black woman wearing blue police slacks and a pale blue shirt. She has a badge and a police walkie-talkie that’s sputtering something unintelligible. She says, “All the streets that sound like places in the East Bay are up that way.”

She gestures toward a little bluff with paved streets and street signs, so I set off in that direction. There’s a map on one corner, like one of those “you are here” signs in a shopping mall. Can’t remember what happens next, but later...

I’m in an area of the park that’s more overgrown and wild, like a hilly forest. I walk across a small stream and look down at my hiking boots in the shallow water. The water is clear and cold, with small pebbles. I scramble up a slippery slope on the other side, through a tangle of young trees and bushes.

Later again...

I’m in a car with Dad and Uncle K. Dad is driving. Long, hilly, winding back country roads. We pass some farm houses and a big yellow Victorian building... like an old hotel or resort, very run down. Muddy front yard... some mud splattered on the dirty yellow clapboards.

Dad is driving down this long hill, aiming for a big, dilapidated hotel with a dark wooden doorway in the middle of the road. I say, “Dad, you’re driving too fast; you’re scaring me.” He's a bit embarrassed and slows down a little. We get to the doorway and suddenly the car is gone... we’re walking through the doorway... up this odd, rickety white ramp. Instead of stairs, there are black strips of old tires nailed to the floor - and you have to dig your toes in to them to keep from sliding back down. I’m wearing brown socks (no shoes for traction) and I'm worried about slipping and falling.

Further up, the ramp becomes a narrow stairway with white walls. At the top is a series of little rooms, like in an old house that’s been turned into some sort of office. Pale yellow 1920s rooms with gray baseboards and wide window sills... lots of modern, slightly beat up, dusty office equipment and old computers, papers cluttered on desks, chords and wires spaghettied around and over everything.

The last room is more like the living room of an old apartment. Comfortable old furniture, tables with family knickknacks. Mom is there. Dad and Uncle K are gone and I start to tell her where we’ve been. There’s a road atlas opened to a page showing the area we traveled through - I can see it clearly as I type this. I try to find a particular town or landmark we passed but can’t remember its exact name. It might be the name of the hotel. I do find the general area on the map, but either it isn’t listed or I can’t remember the name. Sorta frustrating.

A big truck growling down the street woke me up.

Underwater TV Pilot

Part of a much longer dream:

I was an actor on a TV pilot that I knew wouldn’t be picked up by any network. My character was a single Dad (widowed or divorced... I can’t remember), raising his son in Hawaii. My body in the dream was the body of that hunky guy on the JAG TV show (yeah right, in my dreams).

The opening title music was a vocal piece with a lyric that said, “oh to be free - free from Hawaii.” The camera was pointed straight down into the ocean as the credits rolled. The water was about 50 feet deep... tropical blue, reefs, lots of tropical fishes, dappled, shimmering light. I swam with the actor who played my son. We held hands as we swam, with the camera following us from above.

We wore black wetsuits but no air tanks - and that wasn’t a problem. I think we could breathe water. The wetsuits had two bright yellow stripes from each shoulder to the waist. The scene was tender and bittersweet for some reason. That’s the feeling that stuck with me when I woke up.

In the waking world, I don’t watch much TV these days. I’m not a professional actor, I don’t have a son, and I’ve never been to Hawaii. I bear no resemblance to the above referenced actor and I don’t think I can breathe water, although I haven’t tried lately. I’ve been listening to an album as part of a work project. It has lots of tropical ocean, water and nautical references in the art and music. A line from one song I particularly like says, “you’ll drown in the love you were drinking.”