Can’t we all be friends?
2/21/2002
In this dream, I am living in an Apartment with LK. I keep getting phone messages from strange woman that I do not know. At one point KH comes into the room, yet she is Hawaiian or Asian for some reason. LK’s bedroom smells so bad that she wants to move out of the apartment. I am explicitly not invited to move into new apartment, so in a fit of anger I go out and buy a motorcycle. Then, I leave town on motorcycle when I catch her kissing another guy.
Then, the dream shifts dramatcially to a cab ride through Anchorage. The passenger in the cab is a prominent black man (a celebrity), and the driver is also black and he is more of a tour guide than cab driver at the moment. The driver drives the taxi through impossibly narrow alleys into streets that do not actually exist in Anchorage, yet I can tell that the ride is taking place in Spenard district. The driver points out the dingy home of some famous Black-American.
The taxi goes another couple of blocks on Minnesota and turns into another insanely narrow side street. Cab parks in covered driveway by poor house. Driver explains that this is was the home of famous writer that has since passed away (which is interesting because I had just heard about the 50th anniversary of Ralph Ellison’s “Invisible Man” on NPR the day before).
There is a bunch of furniture under the covered driveway area. The funiture is all collectible and antique; stuff that the deceased writer got at a speakeasy (huh?). It is a shame because the furniture is warped and peeling due to inadequate cover. The covering is clearly a poor attempt by an underfunded agency making a token attempt to preserve a bit of history, and it clearly deserves more than this horrific neglect.
The celebrity from the cab suddenly picks up a warped and bent coffee table, lets out a mighty roar, and crashes through the locked door of the abandoned home. Then I (or the cabbie rather, in a point-of-view fashion), run after the man.
The initial room of the home is too big for the actual home’s external dimensions. It is full of locker banks and looks like a forgotten locker room in in some ancient high school. The floor is covered in a foot of smelly, green water and water drips from spots in the collapsing ceiling. The celebrity is yelling and running through the poorly lit, wet, and bloated hallways, his feet splashing in the muck and kicking up the smell of must and decay. The cabbie (me) is racing after him wildly.
At the end of a hallway, the black celebrity falls into a giant milkshake container. He is thrashing around as the blade is lowered into the container to mix the white, frothy milk and the rich, dark chocolate. I begin to rearrange the dream in a semi-lucid state so that the man escapes the blades, dripping with milk, his skin momentarily liquid white. But the dream wants him to get blended and chopped, so he keeps appearing back in the blender. The dream wants him mixed, but I don’t. Due to the exertion from rearranging the dream events, I wake up.
