2.17.18

I am at my grandma and grandpa Powers’ house sitting on one of the easy chairs in the living room. My immediate family is here with me. Molly is sitting in a chair next to me holding our child in her arms. She passes our child to me and I cradle it against my chest. The strange thing is that it is only the size of my fist. Folds and folds of skin roll over its hairless body. Its head is tiny. Its impossible to determine its sex. As it struggles to command its neck muscles to look up at me I see that its eyes are clouded over, as if it has cataracts. I think, “but this is a newborn baby mole.” Nevertheless I hold it in my arms like it were more precious than anything I’ve known. I look up briefly and feel something stir in my lap. I look down and see a black and white long-haired cat standing in the place of my mole-child. I look around frantically for it and run into the back room. “The cat! The cat must have grabbed the baby and took it somewhere!” Strangely, I am the only one so concerned about what has happened. I crumble onto my hands and knees and desperately search for the mole-baby. The landscape has transformed. The floor is a dusty terrain filled with small dangerous creatures. I see snakes, cats, and rat-like things. Where could our baby be? I weave past hissing snakes, spitting cats but I don’t see our baby anywhere. Why is no one else helping me? The search goes on for a long time but my hope diminishes as the harshness of this terrain sinks in. There is no way it survived, wherever it is. I stand and return to the living room. Matt Bobo is there. He says, “I’m surprised that you were so bothered by this.” He’s surprised I’m bothered by the abduction of my child? Molly also appears nonplussed. “We’ll just have to make another one,” she says. What an awful thing. It’s hard to imagine starting back at scratch with this.

Later, I am in a huge building, almost like a hotel. A formal gathering of some kind is going on in front of a large doorway. I see that it is Donald Trump and a few other of his lackeys. Seeing the way blocked, I move on down the hallway but then a sound catches my attention. I hear that Trump and the others there are playing and singing one of my songs, “The Forest.” Enraged, I go back to where they are gathered and interrupt the performance. “That’s my song! They’re playing my song!” Donald Trump just stares at me, as if waiting for some kind of cue from myself. The rest of his lackeys do the same. “Tell them that that is my song!” They do nothing.

2.16.18

I am winding my way around large piles of oddities filling every square inch of a huge dimly-lit warehouse. There are others here with me, examining some of the curiosities that catch their eye. I get the understanding that this is a place for games and we are all expected to play them. The games and other amusements can be found mixed in with everything else.  However, I have no one to play them with. I think of calling my friend, Grant, who I remember in past occasions coming to meet me to play Go. Then I see a strange instrument. I sense Molly’s presence nearby, watching me. I pick up the instrument and examine it. It is wooden with finger holes down one side, very small strings down the other, and a large sound hole. I pluck at the tiny strings and it makes a very pleasing sitar-like sound. I then place my mouth over the other end, place my fingers along the holes, and attempt to play a scale. It takes several attempts to figure out a major scale. The sound is pure, clear, and full. As I examine the instrument again, I see that it is in the likeness of a man, like a wooden doll. The mouth hole is at its bottom, maybe at its feet, the sound holes run up the leg, and reverberate throughout its torso and head. The strings are strung along the side of its body. What a strange, exotic, almost eerie instrument!

2.10.18

I have gone off and bought a car and when I come back home to show Molly, my whole family is there. They stand there looking at it and I’m suddenly embarrassed to see that it is a black Lamborghini. It didn’t seem like it was the car I bought but now here it is, and I’m stuck with it. I can hardly stand to look at it myself. Molly asks, “how much did you pay for it?” I’m able to save face, somewhat, when I say, “only $2,000.” But really, I have spent much more. I want her to think that I bought it because it was cheap, not because I really wanted a car so tacky and in poor taste. I think desperately about how I’ll be able to sell this car right away, but I don’t think it’ll be easy. In the meantime, I have to be seen driving it.