Dream of: 24 November 2020 "The Approaching Nun"
I am in the Logan Street House (a five-room cottage in Portsmouth, Ohio where my mother lived from 1971 to 1977). My mother (1931-2015) lives here now. I have recently moved back to Portsmouth and I am staying here with her.
I am preparing to go out for the day. My old attorney-friend, Wheat (whom I first met in Dallas around 1987) now owns an office building in downtown Portsmouth, and I am thinking about going there for the day. Plus, Wheat owes me some money. I have some papers regarding this debt. I just talked with him about it yesterday or the day before. He was supposed to be paying me $350 a month for something, although I cannot remember exactly what the money is for.
I recall that at one time I was renting an office from Wheat. Then I moved out of the office and I moved away, but Wheat still owes me the money. Now, however, I cannot find the papers. I know that I just had them, but they have disappeared. I think the papers might even contain a promissory note from Wheat to me. That would be best—if I had an actual promissory note showing that he owed me $350 a month for something. Unfortunately, I am unsure that an actual promissory note is in the papers.
Besides seeing Wheat about the money, I have another project that I can work on at the office, so I am going to go there today. It is close to 1 p.m. and I usually go into work around 1. I am thinking, however, that I do not have to be there at a certain time and that I can go there anytime I want. I can go in later if I want.
It seems as if I may have smoked a little marijuana this morning. I think I will take the roach with me and smoke it in the car on the way to the office. That is something that I normally would not do, but I think I may today. However, I cannot find the roach. I do find a tiny, little baggie of marijuana which is hardly enough for a joint. I recall that someone—perhaps my sometimes handyman Wayne—gave this to me. When I open the little baggie over top of the little desk which I have here in my bedroom, the crumbs of marijuana spill into the open desk drawer. I leave the marijuana there. Since my mother lives in this House, I hope she does not find it.
I leave the House on a little, rickety bicycle. I think if someone sees me n this old bicycle and asks me if I have a car, I will answer, "Three," which is true: I have three vehicles.
I end up riding east on Second Street in the Boneyfiddle area (the oldest commercial area of Portsmouth). I see that due to the covid-19 virus, the streets are vacant. Everything is quiet. The street seems to be covered with a brown-wood designed linoleum and everything seems so clean and orderly. Everything looks like something from a bygone age.
Suddenly, up ahead of me, a stout woman dressed entirely in black even with a black veil over her head is walking toward me. I think she is a nun. The scene almost looks like an eerie photograph. I like the feeling even though it is slightly alarming. Except for the woman, the streets are eerily deserted but at the same time I like the feeling of no one else being around.
I continue riding east for a few blocks toward downtown Portsmouth. When I have almost reached Chillicothe Street, I drift over into the left lane. As I approach the corner still riding on the wrong side of the street, I cannot tell if any traffic on Chillicothe Street is about to turn the corner and head right into me, although I think I have a glimpse—through the parked cars—of a car preparing to turn toward me from Chillicothe Street. It is possible that if I am not careful, I could wreck head-on into that car at the corner.
Commentary of 25 November 2020
I am still reading Der Prozess and trying to dream about Franz Kafka. The more I think about the word "kafkaesque," the more the word seems to apply to many of my dreams.
kafkaesque dreams tend
to remind one like hitchcock
that nightmares are real
Picture: Saint Sofia of Suzdal
Date: 17the century
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