night of 2/21/2012

I go to a room in the back of the house, looking for a place to hang my pictures. I find a room that ought to make a nice gallery: well lit by windows, white, nice wood trim. I discover that it's full of Dad's paintings. He must have forgotten to take them with him, as he did all the other paintings in the house, when he moved out and my family moved in. Some of the pictures are quite good. I begin taking them down and laying them on the floor. One big one, the one I noticed first, and liked, an abstract collection of dark moody shapes collected into a central mass on a dim background of sky, I notice is in three separate pieces, painted on wood, that I lay carefully so as not to scrape. Then I move on, further back and deeper into the house (which apparently is massive) to another door which slides open at the touch of a button, to reveal another gallery, expansive enough to be a small museum. I don't know whether this will also house paintings, or will be empty.

night of 2/20/2012

1 i need to shit bad. i've moved into a dorm or run-down hotel with some friends and the squalor is unbearable, like a crack house, and the toilet is so filthy i have to look elsewhere. after wandering first into a hotel, then into an airport, finding only detestable toilets, i find a men's-room sign that leads me into the back rooms of the airport, stacked high with parts and machinery. i pass through one plastic-curtained doorway after another until finally a clean toilet appears. later i am retracing my steps in order to lead some others to it. now, though, the big back rooms are crawling with processions of hulks, either robots or men in heavy armor. we are forced to hide, and eventually to arm ourselves and fight. [i've had the dream of a search for a toilet before; in addition to filth, they also tend to have an exaggerated lack of privacy.]

2 i am in the audience of a trial. the defendant has produced an advertisement that has been found objectionable. (it involves a boat somehow; maybe promising it as a prize.) the prosecution exhibits other ad campaigns that accomplish similar goals, but are more tasteful. nearing the end of the prosecution--it's not clear that there will be a turn for defense--the prosecutor announces that the case will rest at 2:00 precisely, and he points to a clock high on the wall. it is encased in glass. the time is a few minutes shy of two. the judge, on this signal, throws a heavy object at the clock case, shattering it. i raise my hand and say i'd like to ask a question. (i did this once before, during the case, and was told to wait.) i'm aware that questions from the audience are unusual but feel compelled to try. now i am allowed, but time is almost up. "why didn't you set aside any time to discuss whether the actions of the defendant were in any way illegal?"

night of 2/14/2012

back to the house i grew up in. he's there, somewhere, maybe upstairs, but i don't see him. this after the apocalyptic change, leaving the world is demon-haunted. we can be possessed, absorbed, from anywhere: a wall, a street, a pool of water. i must act the right way in order to avoid drawing the demons' attention. the walls and the shadowed corners inside the house are likewise inhabited. after all this time, though, they are no longer horrifying. i need only act the right way: i can; I know how. this is simply what one does to survive.