Change is difficult. Explaining it is harder. c. December 2007

I've been dealing with a lot of dirty laundry, not all of it mine. I've got to do another load and I realize that I'm out of quarters. I ask a co-worker and all she's got are dollar coins and a commemorative pin.

I go to the courtyard where there's an activist group soliciting donations. They are acquaintances of mine and I ask them if they'll make change for me. I've got a twenty and I need two bucks in quarters. One girl hands me eight quarters, a twelve dollar bill and a twenty. I've never seen a twelve dollar bill before, but the way our currency keeps changing unannounced, I'm not surprised. And, I reason, we do have a lot of dozens... inches, months, eggs. It's also an easy way to give change for something that costs eight dollars. Whatever. Back to the problem... she's given me too much money back. I show her the twenty and tell her to keep that. That all she owes me back now is six dollars because I've got the twelve and the eight quarters. She says she doesn't have a six dollar bill and she roams off to get her colleague for advice.

My patience runs thin, even when I'm asking for a favor.

Otherwise too engaged to grab the brass ring c. late November 2007

I am sitting on a porch with a man, his sister, and mother. He announces to his family that he and I are going to get married, and he clips an engagement ring around my finger. I look down at it. It is a brass ring in the shape of a tiny single handcuff.

He also announces that my flowers are to be thistles. Afterthought: His last name is Scott. I immediately think of the crayon color and start trying to work with that limited color scheme.

His sister is going through a rough divorce, and social services keeps visiting to make sure she is taking care of her children properly. I am trying to help her out, but my help is not welcome. As part of the court order, she needs to display flags on the porch to show the extent of her mothering skills. The flags sometimes morph into clean laundry hanging from a line.

I start to throw up whole, uncooked shiny black beans. I mention to the man and his family that I often throw up strange things in dreams, and that usually it means something.

I halfway resign myself to making this marriage work, and halfway look for a way to escape. The beams above the porch start to collapse and I get on a ladder to prop them up as I throw up more black beans.

Mall-alma mater c. November 24, 2007

I keep visiting my alma mater during orientation and I'm not privy to the schedule. I think I'm supposed to register for classes, but I am pretty sure I've missed the deadline. I can't find my dorm, and only parts of the campus are vaguely familiar. The idea of embarking on another degree is really daunting. Sometimes, I already have a schedule that includes really heavy courses on Russian history, marine biology, and Post Neo-Somethingism literature. When I do get a chance to browse a course catalog I am excited to find courses on machine knitting and plastics, but I have no idea how to drop or add classes.

I stop by one of the outdoor bars along College Row (usually with a gourmet burger / cabana theme), but they're not open yet. So, I head into one of the restaurants and/or cafeterias. My meal card hasn't been activated, so I've got to pay cash.

I never get to eat. Either my order never comes up, or I get moved to a different table, or I've missed the serving time, or someone I'm meeting comes in and wants to go somewhere else.

I'm always surprised by the number of new amenities. In recent visits, they've added a pet shop and animal hospital and an indie-designer department store, an auto body shop, multiplex theater, and a craft supply store. WeShop has expanded to include a gardening section and a modern design giftware section. There's also a huge record store and something that resembles Abercrombie & Fitch. You can use points at all of these places.

Clearly, I've got unresolved issues about my education. It's a luxury commodity, and I have had opportunities to exploit its value. It's also something I didn't buy into completely and never fully consumed. Maybe I had to leave before I really had a chance to shop. Maybe it was more than I bargained for.

An ongoing search for baby purple carrots c. November 2006 to the present

I'm in fancy grocery stores. Some are really high-tech, some are very organic and unkempt. The are almost always multi-leveled stores. I'm supposed to bring baby purple carrots to Thanksgiving. When I find them, they are usually wilted in a tiny plastic clamshell pack and cost about $14 or $19.

I didn't realize that such a thing existed until I typed "purple carrots" into Google Images just now.

A hybrid vehicle / a career change not in the cards c. November 9, 2007

I'm in the Javits Center, looking for my former co-worker, Ph****. I'm floating in a seated position, rowing down the aisles using a cane on the floor in an oar-like fashion.

I'm supposed to meet Ph**** at the entrance of the Sources show. They've changed the name of the show to Changes. I think it's a funny coincidence because whenever we discussed the Sources Show, we always sang the David Bowie song "Changes" with the word "sources" substituted in the lyrics... as in:
Suh-suh-suh-suh-sources.

I'm not on the list at Changes. I show them my business card. The man at reception rips it up, saying, "Sorry, that card will do you no good here." I remember that Ph**** isn't my co-worker anymore. Turns out he is on the list, but I can't go in to meet him.

In my dreams I am usually either in a wheelchair OR I am flying. The dream recounted above was a strange combination of the two... relying on a cane while floating.

WHEELCHAIRS
The recurring wheelchair dreams are usually accompanied by feelings of guilt, because I am physically able to walk, but mentally too exhausted to do so. While wheeling around, I fear accusations of malingering, of trying to gain advantages or sympathy by using a wheelchair I don't need.

• Is it our discomfort over seeing someone wheelchair-bound that would make us angry to see that same person get out of the chair to handle obstacles like stairs and curbs? Why? Is it about fairness? Those confined to a wheelchair wouldn't have the same freedom to get around those obstacles.
• Or is it about scorning laziness? But, we ride in cars all the time.
• Is it tied up in the separation of adulthood from infancy? I stare at overgrown kids stuffed into strollers with a certain amount of disdain. But I don't sneer at a kid on a bike or tricycle.
• Or, is it that when we see someone bound by something, we prefer that they stay that way?

There are parallels here to mental illnesses, or any illnesses that are difficult to quantify physically... especially as it pertains to the use of anti-depressants. Some people think anti-Ds are like cheating at the pursuit of happiness, an athlete on steroids. By the way, I also think it's significant that I don't know how to ride a bike in my sleeping OR my waking life. Although I doubt it, maybe if I learned to ride a bicycle, I'd stop dreaming about wheelchairs.

FLIGHT
My dream flights, on the other hand, evoke feelings of being exceptional and accomplished, able to overcome gravity in a way others cannot... very Matrix, very Crouching Tiger. No wonder most superheros can fly. For me, flight is always very muscular and requires exertion. It's also something I figured out how to do, not a skill I was taught or a talent I was born with.

I repeat, again c. November 4, 2007

I had the dream about broken records again.

There are too many records stacked on the record player. The needle can't reach. Some of the records are still in their jackets and others are all warped and broken. I try to play a Pixies CD but I use the record needle on it. It makes a waxy scratch through the CD and record below.

Step on a crack, break your mother's heart? c. October 30, 2007

In 1992, I modeled a traditional Chinese wedding dress for a local newspaper feature. My father was in the hospital at the time, and I had been struggling with the guilt I felt for being too stoic... until halfway through the photo shoot, when I rushed out of the room and puked through my nose.

I'm visiting my parents' house and find that my mother has taken the Chinese wedding dress out of my old closet. She is selling it. Not that it belonged to me or that I would have wanted it for my wedding, but I feel somehow that it is invasive that she sell it without asking me. She says that she's given up. She doesn't think I'll ever get married. Why don't I ever bring boyfriends home?

I say, you know why. Look at what you did to B**** and R***. In fact, I say, I've been married for over a year, but you'll never meet him.

She bombards me with questions. The last question is: what kinds of things do you two do together?

Crack, I say. Lots of crack.

Hate, dates, and keeping your feet on the ground c. October 13, 2007

I'm floating through the Javits Center. There are a lot of unattended booths abandoned after the last trade show. There are a few customers wandering around aimlessly. I wonder why no one seems to be stealing and/or demanding customer service.

I float to the back of the convention center, past an entrance to the Bodies exhibit. Following that entrance is another hallway. I discover a tony department store I've never seen before. The focus of the merchandise is home goods - luxury towels and linens, flowers, and fine desserts. I'm flying, but not in the usual way. I'm actually trying to keep my feet on the ground but I keep floating up, and a breeze keeps blowing me away.

I keep worrying that I'm going to knock over the displays or hit a wall. I attempt to take an escalator downstairs, but I can't keep my feet on the stairs. The escalator transforms into a staircase going upstairs and a decapitated black bird latches its talons onto my arm. I shake it off but can't free myself from its grasp.

I wake up momentarily and see a phantom limb. It's Beaumont's front leg with his paw bent in a perfect greek key shape linked around my arm. I instinctively shake my arm to free it. Once the image fades and I realize it might have been his ghost coming for a visit, I feel bad. I drift back to sleep.

I float through a high-ceilinged marble lined room with a big iron sculpture in the middle. Now, I'm drifting through another gourmet section of the store. It's closing time. I debate whether or not to bring home a couple of little cakes and a bouquet of flowers. There are people waiting for me in the linens department... no one I'm particularly enthused to hang out with, but I'm feeling rushed.

It's a nice store but I don't know its name. I wonder why I haven't heard about it before. A store this huge doesn't usually go unnoticed in New York. As I'm leaving, I realize I had indeed read something about this store opening, but I thought it was called "d8." I reach into my purse and find a 15% off coupon for use at h8, expiring today. My mistake. I had written "d8" in my planner. I erase my notes and change "d8" to "h8."

Thanks, but I'll pass c. October 7, 2007

I'm cleaning up after a huge dinner party thrown by my mom. This party has taken place over the last three nights in my dream life. I'm loading the dishwasher.

Now I'm doing pirouettes in the family room. Lilla G****** sees me and critiques my form. I haven't seen her in years. She asks what I've been doing. I tell her where I went to college, the different cities I've lived in, and that until recently I was in New York designing for Jonathan Adler. Now I'm back at my parents' house until I finish high school. It's a little after 10AM. I'm skipping my morning classes even though I think I may not have enough credits to graduate. I tell her that I used to think I wanted to finish high school to prove something, but now I look at these teachers, and I'm 32 years old... what are you going to do to me if I don't come to math class? Who cares if I don't have enough credits to graduate? I decide to stop going and return to my job in New York.

Since I left high school early over 15 years ago, I've been having nightmares about being required to return and complete my senior year. This is one of several breakthrough dreams where I let go of that fear.

Non-model identities c. July 2003

My house is four stories with a pool that goes from indoors to outside. There is a modeling contest being held inside the theater in my house. By chance, I meet my husband's mistress because she is participating in the contest. She doesn't know that I am his wife. She thinks my name is June Dwelling.

I am in a four story department store called Clobba (an actual store in San Francisco). The fourth floor is a club-like setting with robotic mannequins. They emerge from backstage and then do crazy Stepford-Wife moves and then return backstage. I am trapped. To return to the first floor, one has to pass through a sterilization chamber like a walk-in dishwasher. A glowing light hypnotizes you, and you turn into one of the mannequins. Your dilated pupils indicate that the hypnotization is complete. I see my boyfriend across the way. He's holding our baby and has come up to find me. Now, I need to find a way for the three of us to escape. He unzips his scrotum and places our real (really tiny) baby inside. I fashion a hollow baby out of chocolate (like a chocolate Easter bunny). Fingerprints are illegal here. Before we enter the chamber, I place a fingerprint on the floor, in fluorescent ink. While in the chamber, we stare at my fingerprint rather than the light. The chocolate baby arches in the heat and melts in my hands. Our pupils dilate because we're looking at the fluorescent ink and the chamber releases us. We leave the melted baby on the floor, bash all the mannequins into pieces and escape.

I repeat c. January 2007

Several nights in a row, I dream about broken records.

Lost in translation c. March 2004

I’m in France looking for someone who speaks Spinach.
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A French robot named I.D.E.O. is chasing me. (I.D.E.O. = pronouced like the French “idiot.”)

Unblocked, I felt greatness? c. September 26, 2007

In order to get to my section of the dormitory/hotel, I must climb a series of stacked slabs or blocks of granite. As I am climbing, one comes loose and the whole thing starts to tumble down. No one is injured but there are many close calls. As the granite blocks for my section fall down, all of the blocks to the entrances of the other halls fall as well. Everyone attempting to get back to their rooms is a bit traumatized.

We are diverted to another section of the dormitory/hotel. We are walking in a cluster like a tour group. We end up sitting around an indoor fountain with lots of greenery: very hotel/mall-like. We are instructed to make badges out of felt, glue, and safety pins. The objective is to define greatness for ourselves and to share that with the others: define an aspect of greatness, imagine an action that could lead to greatness, and put a firm deadline on completing that action. Not grasping the assignment, and still stressed from the avalanches, I spend most of the time gluing scraps of felt together in an aimless manner. I overhear the directive again and realize that the project could be approached from a different angle. The instructor gave an example and the date she used for the deadline seemed like a hint to me... that the point of the exercise was to realize the greatness already within. I found the whole thing patronizing, but I oblige and date some of my deadlines in the past... before I get to the future ones, I run out of time.

Alarm clock goes off.

Half baked c. September 2007

I've been having anxiety dreams about baked goods. These are clips from three different nights.

I've decided to open a side business selling muffins. The two kinds I will offer are chocolate zucchini and blueberry oatmeal. I can't find the ingredients in time to make my market deadline.
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I am hosting a birthday party and I am decorating a bunch of cupcakes. My pastry bag keeps running out of frosting. My rosettes and leaves keep wilting.
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I'm at the office and it's Tr***'s birthday. I walk down the street to go to Baskin Robbins for an ice cream cake but I detour to the right when I see a grocery store I haven't noticed before.

There are numerous options right as I walk in: a Carvel freezer, a display case of Italian cookies, an Entemann's section, a Sara Lee freezer, and a bakery section with brightly colored cakes in solid colors. I've only brought a $20 bill and I need to get enough cake to feed 16 people.

I go to the section with the vibrantly colored cakes. There are all these great colors like hot pink, lime green, and turquoise. The problem is that the cakes are all stacked on top of each other and are either lopsided or crushed on one side, etc. Every time I see a good one, the price is above my budget: $24.83. Finally, I select a small royal blue one with a simple scalloped border for $11.85, but I get superstitious about the unluckiness of blue in Chinese culture, even though no one in the office subscribes to that superstition. I see an almost perfect chocolate brown one with the same scalloped edge for $16.49.

When I finally flag down a saleswoman, she asks me if I want a name piped on the top; I say yes. She says it will take 2 hours. I say, never mind. Since I'm in a grocery store, I'll just go over to the baking aisle and get one of those frosting gel tubes. She takes the round cake and shoves it into an undersized square box. I let it go -- figuring that we can just eat the cake, not have it too. A bonus with the cake purchase is a cheap necklace with a blue stone. I don't want it, but she keeps trying to shove it on my neck without undoing the clasp, and it's more of a bracelet really.

Swallowing my resolve c. Spring 1995

I'm in the church I attended as a child, except now I am my current age (19 years old at the time).

The setting flickers back and forth. Most of the time, my mother is sitting on one side of me and a police officer on the other. The priest is sitting in the pew in front of me, but has turned around to face me. We are the only ones in the otherwise empty church.

Other times we are sitting in the church office. I am sitting in a chair opposite the priest's desk, being interrogated. The cop is standing behind me holding me down in the chair by the shoulders. My mother is sitting in the corner facing the priest.
They are all urging me to drink the liquid. The priest tells me that it will cleanse me, my mother promises that it will cure me, and the cop is threatening to have me committed if I disobey.

They pour the liquid into a chalice. I notice that it comes from a red bottle of Resolve carpet cleaner.

There is no resolution to the insanity. I wake up just as I am about to drink my resolve.

Backflipping time travel c. September 9, 2007

I am part of a team of four scientists who travel to outer space and figure out a way to go back in time, but only by a day at a time. To do this, we align ourselves with four planets in a particular configuration by placing our four chairs in the same relative positions. Then, one of us has to do backflips while the others drive a train through a time portal. We land on the previous day on the Williamsburg bridge and I have to steer us through traffic. As usual, my brakes don't work very well and I feel as out of control driving as I do playing one of those race car arcade games.

One character c. May 2003

A famous model in the 1970’s was taunted constantly:
“Valerie Glass has no class. She isn’t worth the zits on her ass.”

Disembodied c. January 27, 1994

Someone hands me a green bell pepper. It mutates into a shrunken head. I throw it into the fireplace and a green glowing image of a head floats up and rotates. I figure it to be Eleanor Roosevelt. I am scared and in awe, and ask if anyone else saw it. A girl sitting next replies nonchalantly- yes, yes... it was Eleanor Roosevelt.

Now I’m walking through a cathedral/ museum with my first boyfriend, Matt N*****. I’m looking through my backpack for the brochure guide to all of the cathedral’s possessions. As I rifle through a bunch of papers, I know I’m looking for the one that has “HINDU” written on the top. Somehow I believe that if I burn that brochure, I’ll be able to show him Eleanor Roosevelt. All I can find are letter openers made of bamboo.

I’m at a party now at MacArthur Park in San Antonio. We all decide to burn some stuff in a cup. I’m afraid it might explode, but I really want to see Eleanor again. I try but I can’t see her in the flames. I get distracted by leg sitting on the table. Turns out, it’s a hollow cast for a broken leg but at the bottom of it, there’s a foot. I’m not shocked; I just ask around to find out who it belonged too. Sitting in the corner is a girl from my 4th grade class, Janice H*******, seemed to always have a broken or sprained something or other. She says it is hers, but both of her legs are already in casts. I’m trying to figure out how there’s a third foot involved. I realize that her body sheds parts and that’s the reason she always had casts and slings on in elementary school.

The dream police c. a few weeks ago

I wake up and take a shower and get dressed. I head out to meet N***** at the Japanese food court. We are in Japan, but the vendors are accepting dollars for payment and all of the patrons are speaking English and appear to be American. I walk back and forth, looking at the various food options, and I am surprisingly disappointed. It's all yakisoba and very greasy. N***** is at another table downstairs, chatting with some old friends and there's no room at their table. I take a seat at an empty table and start to pick through my food.

There is annoying music playing... and someone explains to me that it is a traditional Japanese song. I try to be respectful and enjoy it, but it is really jarring and repetitive. The music is coming from a stereo in a booth where the vendor has stepped away. Although I fear that the crowd will admonish me for doing so, I walk over to the stereo and turn the music off. I am happy that several people sitting nearby shout out, "Thank you!" in gratitude as they were annoyed by the music too. I go back to my table and try to eat. The music starts again: "EHH EHH EHH EHH EHH EHH."

I think to myself: this music sounds a lot like my alarm clock. If I were asleep, this would be one of those dreams where I incorporate the sound of my alarm clock into the dream. But no, I reason. I am awake. I remember getting up, taking a shower, doing the whole morning routine. Wait, but the bathroom was unfamiliar. No, it wasn't... I justify to myself. Now I remember that I remodeled the bathroom to look exactly like the one in my parents' house. I go over to the stereo. This time I'm turning all of the knobs and I cannot get the music to stop. I hit mute, volume, change all the settings. Nothing. I question my it's-not-an-alarm-clock theory again, but I run through the events of the day and realize that I cannot possibly be asleep.

All of a sudden, a guy runs into the room. Two cops are chasing him, yelling, "Stop! Wait! You're not supposed to be here! You are sleeping. You are not awake! You aren't real! You're not supposed to be here!" I start to question myself again. Are they here for me too? No, he's the one who is dreaming. Not me. I'll be fine. They tackle him to the ground. When they try to pick him up, he goes limp so that he is dead weight. The cops grab him, each one hoisting him up by hooking him under the arm on either side.

As soon as they get him off the ground, I startle awake. My alarm clock is still going. The brief intermission in the music was me snoozing the alarm clock in my sleep.

My first ethnic identity dream c. 1979

I'm naked and lying face down in my room buried under piles of toys and clothes. A couple walks in. Although I can't see them, I know that they are Caucasian and that they are carrying shopping baskets.

They start to pick through my toys, saying things like "wouldn't this make a lovely gift for so-and-so?" I get nervous as they zero in on my hiding spot, one of them finally picking up a toy that reveals my bare bottom as the rest of me remains concealed. They mistake my butt cheeks for two eggs.

"Oh honey, that reminds me. We need to get some eggs," the wife says.

"But those are brown," the husband says, disappointed. "We always get white eggs."

She replies, "but brown eggs are better, aren't they?"

Conception and birth?: a recurring childhood dream c. 1980's

I'm in a room. The interior has a Kubrick 2001 Space Odyssey feel, but is more beige than white. I am one of approximately seven girls sitting in chairs on risers like a choir. I suppose that the girls are my older sisters. They are all wearing white hooded unitards and have pale skin and sharp features like the wicked queen in Snow White. We all face a television screen displaying static. They move their heads as a metronome does, tilting them back and forth, in unison, singing "oooo OOOO" high and low with each click of their heads.

I scream but no sound comes out and I flee the room.

I run down a long dark hallway. I pass a tent, lit from within. There is a rope coming out of the tent, and as I pass by, it snares me around the ankle. I'm pulled into the tent and as I am about to enter, a woman's voice cackles, "Well lemme see what I've caught this time."

I always woke up before I entered the tent.