Performing. The room was the old living room in the old house. 433/6266 West Creek Rd. Newark Valley NY that now sits like a museum of poverty. There in the strange discomfited space, I spoke while you waited in the wings(or where the windows to the backyard are. Gathered around the wood stove all the big armchairs and cacophony of seating made nowhere perfect to stand for visual center. I kept speaking, pacing from one point to another as though I was trying to hold the attention but the light of focus kept shifting. I was the intro, but I kept talking, kept offering caveats, kept going over the lines emphatically. It was going to be about Love and Eros. There were more parts. It was a constant attempt to get at the perfect resonance. I was speaking louder, even using poet voice. I was performing the words. I felt the feeling of it all being chairs going in opposite directions. No stage was set and I couldn’t get it to coalesce
I am preparing two women to be sacrificed. They are in a bird cage in my parents’ family room. I’m upstairs and annoyed that I forgot to remove their clothes, and I am nervous for them. Of course they won’t want to remove them when I instruct them to do so, but the flames will be more painful if they don’t. To my surprise they are nude when I arrive downstairs. This is the second time I have had to prepare women to be sacrificed by fire — in fact, it seems like I have prepared these very two women before (perhaps that is why they removed their clothes). I feel bad for them, I can only imagine how they feel knowing what awaits. I’m sure they are nice ladies, I’m not doing this to be mean, it just has to be done. If freeing them was an option, I would — but it isn’t. The sacrifice must be made.
As my brother, Bobby, and I are loading the cage with crumpled newspaper I see that he left them two large plates of bird food. I’m annoyed because there is too much, and if they eat it all they will be in even more pain when the fire is lit. But there is nothing I can do about it, and rationalize that the food will be a good sacrifice too — besides, they will escape if attempt to get it out.
As I’m loading the cage, the moaning, screaming women turn into beautiful birds. They are flying about and franticly trying to escape when I open the small door to load the newspaper. I know that even if they were to escape there is noway for them to get out of the house. They would be better off not fighting so hard for life and instead contemplate their short time left embodied on Earth. One of them succeeds in getting out of the cage however, and immediately after she attacks my arm with her beak. The pain wakes me up in the middle of the night. ♨
I’m in my potential new, big apartment in an old building in Berlin. Someone tells me that the apartment is on the water. I cast a glance out of the window and I can see water. The sun is reflecting on a calm darkblue sea.
There’s a newspaper on the wooden table with a picture of our house in it. Through seeing this picture I realize the house is built on top of an old stone bridge. I look down through another window and realize that there is a muddy shallowly river below. The bridge is massive and broad, it seems to be stable, but I can’t figure where the water of the river can actually go through it. I know that there will be floods sometimes if we move into this apartment.
I’m talking to my future flatmate and he has a surprisingly deep voice. He then turns out to be another man.
I don’t know whom. ☆
I broke into a house with a friend of mine — the friend was a woman for sure, some sort of hybrid of my Mother and one of my best friends. She was pissed off at the homeowner, and I’m not sure exactly why. But she was full of a righteous anger. The homeowner was also a woman — I didn’t see her, but in my dream I knew who she was (though now I don’t recall). It was night, and she was asleep. We crawled in through a back window, we were in the basement, my friend started vandalizing the house. She started smashing the framed family photos on the wall, and when she realized the sound wasn’t drawing any serious attention she went crazy. I left the house and waited outside. I didn’t like what was happening. I didn’t know what I got myself into. I waited under a tree at the side of the house, and looked out at the cal-de-sac in a daze — partially keeping an eye out for signs of police. The cal-de-sac was the same as the one my family’s home is in and where I grew up. Occasional I would go back and check to see what was happening and try to get my friend to abandon her malicious project, but to no avail. I waited under that tree until daybreak. Then I demanded that we go, and I said I would steal the small mobile-home from the driveway and wait in the dead-end street around the corner from the cal-de-sac (a place I spent much of my childhood). I did so, and as I was there some strangers came that wanted to buy the mobile-home. I thought that it maybe a good idea to get rid of it, but didn’t want to deal with the paperwork. Finally my friend showed up, she more clearly resembled my Mother at this point, and she said she was done and that we could leave. I remember feeling bad for the woman in the house, and feeling ashamed that I played a role in the havoc. While driving away, trailing the stolen mobile-home, I saw that the house was my family’s home. ♨