Dreams and Things

I am in a photographer's art studio. It is a loft with high ceilings and walls made of brick. The studio is well lit. A tall beautiful woman in her late thirties or early forties is there. She carries her beauty with elegance. My brother is on the opposite side of her from me although he does not look like my brother. I am attracted to her but not in a sexual way. I am stunned as I look upon her. We are in the kitchen of a manor made of brick. In the kitchen is an old-fashioned brick stove for baking bread. My father is there but he is a vague figure. Several men younger then me are there, presumably my cousins, and some old men that I think are related to me. My mother is there, too, and she is the elegant woman from the studio. She is quiet in a respectable way as she serves the men who are now in another room cheese.  I realize that I am hungry and go to the refrigerator. The cheese drawer contains only an old and moldy wedge of dry cheese, perhaps Parmesan or...

It is late morning and I am hungry. I decide to go into an Ethiopian restaurant in Hayes Valley for breakfast. I am dubious about getting an Ethiopian breakfast and curious about what I will end up with. As I enter I notice a bar, length-wise in front of me. To the left are tables at which people in groups of two and three are sitting. The tables are wood and look a little worn. Everybody is talking so that there is the high, indistinguishable hum, of conversations. The place is congenial. The restaurant has outdoor seating to the right of me. I decide to go out because there are no free tables to the left. The outdoor seating is shielded from direct sunlight by a corrugated plastic roof. This area is also crowded--There are no free tables. I notice a table close to me that seats four people. Sitting at it is a single young woman. She is 20 years younger than me and I am fifty five years old. She is attractive and despite her age looks closer to thirty. She has aub...

I am working with a young woman preparing for a parade/protest march in some liberal Arab state. We are in a very ornate hall covered from floor to ceiling (and including the ceiling) with designs and the words of the Prophet in stylized letters as if they came out of some sumptuous Koran or the Arabian Nights. The palace smells lightly of teak with which it is made. The sultan is robed in a white flowing robes and wears the headdress common to Arabs who live in the dessert or the (I think) Arab Emirates. A light breeze cools the room to just the right comfort for the young woman and I standing on marble tiles. She explains the details of the upcoming march. She tells me that it is a protest against the regime but just within the tolerance of the ruler of the country. She insists that I join the march despite the fact that I am only a tourist in this land. I reluctantly agree. I revel in the beautiful land tailored with deep fjords covered with lush greenery. It occurs ...