I had just seen Sonic Youth play. I was in a building that was theoretically a student union, to someone, somewhere. Then a lot of things happened and night transgressed into morning, and I was sitting upstairs in a concrete lobby, the sun was warming the ground and the walls and I hugged Margaret. Then, I saw you, walking across the street outside. I ran to the window and I swear down, true say, in my fucking DREAM my heart flew into my brain and then dropped into my shoes with that pain you get, pain from seeing a lost lover. Or a lover you never truly had if you really think about it.
I made eye contact with you through a heat haze, a dream dust, and you slipped away. I saw you again, later. Your car was being towed. I didn't know much of what was going on, a mirror to the reality of you.
I went downstairs. Or, rather I came to be downstairs in that dream manner of quick flashes like a scene change in a Cassavetes film (which is how I have to write about this nightmare, in quick flashes of perception and hurt). You were riding your bike. You were in disguise, wearing a big hat and flourescent sunglasses. Oh my goodness Mike, even in my dream you are a hipster. I see you ride past me and I only recognize you at the last minute, it's too late to stop you, you are hiding from me. Hiding like you did in the real-time-past-life from me, and Sam, and Allison.
You ride past again and this time I am ready. I grab your legs and we go tumbling onto the heat-soaked dusty floor like casualties of gravity. You look at me and exclaim how THIN I am, how you can HARDLY RECOGNIZE ME. How beautiful my hair is. How you cannot be blamed, how you are the wolf spirit, the young wolf soul.
I continue writing this dream three weeks later and all I can remember now is bitterness. Is it good to look back on dreams? I need hope to transcend bitterness, I need beauty to capitulate with uncertainty. I need...to be free?
