dream, not sweet

in my dream i was at a birthday dinner for a friend and i was seated across from tony pierce of busblog fame. i was all "wow, cool, wonder how they know him" and then somehow the conversation became represented visually by a blog rating/comments screen. and in this dream i had something called "the mcdonald's blog" and the point was that i would write about things that happened to me day to day, when i was out to lunch with my coworkers, etc. but in the spot for rating that blog, tony pierce had given me three red stripes (this was apparently bad) and written "too long. unfocused. what is the point?" it didn't really bother me though.

after the dinner i walked home to an apartment i don't have in a neighborhood i've never seen. i stopped in a convenience store around the corner. inner city ghetto scary and this strung-out crackhead young mother at the counter turns around and she has a gun. she starts firing at me, all six rounds close range in superslow motion and i hit the floor and just lie there trying to make myself as small as i can. bang...bang.......bang...bang..........bangbang. they all miss. vigilantes rush in and drag her out screaming. i grab the gun and try to sell it to two young men behind me, they don't want it. i slap it down on the counter and say "here lenny, for you." lenny is a wizened shrunken old vietnamese man. i leave the store.

i walk around the corner to home, stepping over thrift store clothing spread out across sidewalk curb gutter by unofficial blanket sidewalk vendors. i am thinking "i will write about what just happened on the mcdonald's blog, THIS is focused."

i step into the lobby of my building and suddenly everything changes. it's opulent, sparkling, muted, plush. walking through the lobby i see a group of four people, two couples it looks like. they are on their way out. one couple leaves and the other lingers behind, they seem to be hesitantly arguing. i look closer and i think it is my exboyfriend greg. (this is the only element of my dream that actually matches my real life. i went out with greg for two years, another life ago. he was mean, and is the only ex that i really cannot stand, have no desire to know.) greg looks up and sees me and his expression transforms. i smile and walk over. we hug and he introduces me to his companion, she gets a furious look on her face and says "oh, the FAMOUS amy," and coldly, angrily, leaves. he does not follow her or call out to her. he looks at me and he is different. he looks just the same but he is kind now, his energy is warm and embracing. even his lips are soft. he's christlike. (i just realize that now.) smiling down at me and asking me all those questions...you know those questions..."so how are you DOING?" "so what ELSE is going on with you?" then more pointed "so do you live here alone?" we kiss, it is one of those kisses you feel below your stomach and in your soul and i fall back against the wall. he wants my number, he hands me a photograph of myself and a bic pen. i try to write but i am shaken and i can't get the numbers to come out right.

then my brother is there (it isn't my real-life brother but a dream-brother, different). he's coaching me, yelling the numbers out. "east bay! 510!" i try and cross out, try and cross out. when the picture is full of scribbles, i've finally gotten it down right. i hand it back and laugh, it doesn't matter. my brother walks over and i am going to tell them about the shooting in the corner store but he starts asking me if i've ever slept with a prostitute. it's weird and greg is still there and we're both like "uhh..what?" my brother starts telling me a story. he and some friends, driving around in a car, wintercold, they see a homeless alcoholic person passed out under an overpass. he proceeds to describe in graphic detail their gang ass-rape of this man...graphic, brutal detail. now it's like i'm reading it in a book, horrified. i don't know if greg is gone now or if it's just that my awareness of him has receded. my brother finishes his story by describing the man waking up many hours later, after he and his friends have left. (because i am now reading it in a book, the omniscient narrator thing works.) the guy stands up, pulls up his pants, looks around at the stain slowly spreading out from his ass, and laughs and laughs and laughs into the cold grey sky.


one of my best friends says that i am not in touch with my dark side.
i record this dream as evidence to the contrary.