Journeying the child is with me. There are preparations to make. Another scene.I go to a gym behind my house through green gates, taking a bicycle with me past the lifting railroad bar, with assurance of special access. Up the cheap carpeted steps are machines for learning how to deal with flying mach 5 speed planes. There are old institutionalized warmonger types in there laughing. It seems less athletic and more like an old boys club. I go down the stairs. There are a few comfortable stuffed eclectic cafe-furniture chairs centered on a plastic vinyl- fronted computer with a screen the size and shape of a juke box. It is displaying the works of writers. I choose a female poet’s work to read. Its pleasurable to touch the screen. I begin to read it and a conversation interrupts me. A man was talking nearby about children. His wife appears with dark curled hair and big anxious eyes. I feel conscious of my wedding ring on my hand which rests on my propped up knee. Now I am in an art studio with pressed wood top tech-ed tables. A woman unfolds brown paper with white charcoal sketches. I commented on making the art from the insects perspective. I continued, explaining very clearly, “because I am psychic…”&~~
There was a hillside where we, the soldiers, hung out. It was joyful to feel myself in my legs walking down and then up a hill of earth. It was a tall mound of jagged dirt at the top. There was some talk and some camaraderie. Not long and I had fallen asleep inside a warm sac. There was a sexual bit. I remember a phallus. Then a mouth sort of yelling from the outside to wake up. The war had come.
I dreamt I was floating over people being marched as soldiers. We entered a compound and there was an amnesty zone where a sport was being held. I thought of the Celtics(a team I guess?) I was filming with an old victorian accordion camera and there were broadsides of poetry and art. Michel had a piece on the counter attached to Susurrus Din. SD’s work was not supposed to be there, but it was attached to Michel’s. Someone sort of shuffled them on the counter. My friend S.K. from Philly was there in profile. The war was still on outside. An urge to leave came and then I saw a man with an M16 and a white T-shirt come in. He was getting the jump on the other side. For all the war feelings and guns, I heard no shots. I had a bad feeling leaving the arena where the poetry broadsides/Celtics game had gone on. I didn’t have my gun. Where did we leave our guns? Where was my baby? I was think this as I was inside the arena too.
When I left the arena, I climbed up in the building to escape. I saw dark-latino or middle-eastern men. They didn’t seem associated with this “war.” I felt a slight tension but they just disappeared. I needed to get out. I had rope. I don’t remember tying the rope to anything, but still I rappelled down the side into a foyer and ran off. I remember thinking I was not sure what color my team was; blue or tan. It felt like a summer camp and not a war after all. I ran off alone and didn’t rejoin the soldiers but came upon an outdoor birthday party that I was not invited to despite the realization that my sister and brother were there. My brother gave me a plate of pomegranate seeds apologetically because there was no cake for me. I arrived just in time to see it placed before his good friend Gibran. They cut the cake and I slipped away. The women were dressy and one had a scarf around her neck. I had been wearing a full-length slip as I walked up alone. I looked in the refrigerator and saw some old cupcakes. I ate nothing, save the hint of pomegranate seeds. They tasted like cranberries.