DREAM: My van pulls up to a big house (it’s driving by itself) but it has no roof or windows as if somebody completely stripped the top off turning it into a tacky convertible. My Mom and I are standing there on the back porch. We hear a tapping on the wood—somebody knocking, making us aware somebody is watching or making sure I know the van is there and that it is mine. I’m getting angry because I know whoever it is, is nearby. Looking under the porch—going near the van—searching for this unknown person—yelling, “C’mon! I know somebody’s there!” This dream continues on in different forms—recurring and furthering the same story in other dreams. At some point, I discover the missing-top van is not my actual van. It’s a clone to stiff me of the original. Around the corner of the house I watch a stranger with a beard backing up the original van. He notices that I see him and hurries to reverse out of my sight. I point giving him a sign that I see what’s going on—curling my hands into circles and placing them over my eyes like binoculars then pointing at him. Then, I see the convertible van pull around the corner to replace what I had just seen. This is ridiculous. I’m not stupid. The driver of the clone van gets out. It’s a black man with a serious face—he’s declaring to be from some organization like the FBI, conducting a project to stop people from hiding and to reveal their true selves. He’s got a gun. Getting really peeved at this whole thing, “Go ahead! Just shoot me! It’s a dream anyway. It’ll just help me wake up.” So he persists to shoot at me repeatedly. It hurts. Throwing up my arms—feeling the bursting of blood on my hands and flesh wounds on my body. I can’t die—still breathing and alive. Switch to a scene in the big house. Elliott and Brent, an old friend from high school, are kicking a ball around in the living room. It’s understood that Elliott lives here. The wall is made of corkboard and some of Phil’s artwork drawn with markers is hung at the bottom. A small group of people gathering in the kitchen. Quiet talk. Whispering to a friend next to me about a good movie I saw recently. Zooey Deschanel is speaking as the head of the group mentioning a movie called Go Fish Go that she really liked. I interrupted her and felt I should show a sense of respect because of her fame. We come face to face—her big cute eyes, fluttering eyelashes, and long brunette hair. I pull a blue beanie cap off my head and ruff up my hair with my hands. Splitting into groups. Sitting down at a table with Zooey and two young boys. Preparing to play a board game involving little plastic circular symbols that resemble the sun with spike rays sticking out. You have to place them in slots on a white strip. Light conversation as we’re sitting there. Because of the occasion I thought, Why aren’t we filming this? I see Phil Gray standing over there with a black camera case strapped around his shoulder. Walking up to him—I give him a big hug and ask, “Phil, why aren’t you filming this?”
1 p.m. waking up.
Breakfast: Strawberries in Yogurt. Orange Peach Mango Juice.
Mom thinks she can get me out of bed by simply texting and calling me. Not. “You’ve got to be here and actually come into my room!”
Thrift Store Shopping.
Honey from The Honey Store.
Exploring shops in downtown Lake Wales. There’s a beautiful old hotel in the process of being renovated.
Lunch: Boiled Peanuts. Salt n Vinegar Chips. Oranges. Aloe Vera Mango Juice.
Back home.
Dinner: Whole Wheat Pizza from scratch with Peppers. Tea.
Me: “My life’s on pause here. I’ve got to get back in motion.”
Mom: “And what’s wrong with that?”
Lounging on the back porch (lanai) playing mountainous drop d melodies on the guitar while Mom decorates the Christmas tree.
Eating Apple Streusel Pie and drinking Coffee with Honey and Milk.
Continuing our Rummy game. Mom continues to stay safely ahead, always by at least 100 points.
Reading out loud from the How to Build a Better Vocabulary book I got just today. Taking the quizzes and deciphering the words with Mom while she bakes cupcakes—eating a few of them. Helping her organize and pack them—both of us configuring how the plastic wrap should go—which cupcakes to place the toothpicks in—what to write on the cupcakes—realizing our similarities in the need to make sure everything’s right, the details.
Eating Turnips with Milk.
Hearing muffled fart noises in Mom’s room where Jimmy is sleeping.
Reading.
Sleep 4 a.m.
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