I dreampt I was in New York city containing some rabid rabbits. The leader bit me before I put him away.
I walked down a street, aimlessly, following a 40'sish, fit Italian-looking guy who had a trench coat and a newsboy cap on. Or I think he was following me. Then he came around me as another, larger Italian-looking guy approached. They stopped facing each other on the sidewalk. I stopped, too, behind the first guy. Then he physically pushed me away--I remember feeling my shoes scrape on the concrete--a few feet, as if to say, "Go away. This is private." They messed with knobs on a control panel on the side of a brick building. I got out of there, they must have been mob types.
Then I was at a table cutting pieces of paper with a couple older dudes and a couple little kids in this big backyard under a loft (like a swingset bench, almost.)
A 20-something guy with chin-length light red hair hit on me. I was coldly aloof, and he knew it but didn't care. He asked when he could see me, I said "I'll call you," but didn't ask for his number. Then he asked what percent chance he had of my calling him, and I lied and said, "30." I remember he talked a little marble-mouthed. His lips had the appearance of being swollen, as some lips do. "Well that's still a good chance," he said. Night fell. There was a stage in the backyard. He started playing music. I went over to a trampoline and listened. He sounded like he ripped off Thom Yorke a little bit.
Then Cleo got to the show. She saw the guy, and, having been informed of his affections, insisted that I hook up with him. "This is perfect!" She said. "He's so cute!" We were sitting in front of the drum set where he played and sang, so I was self-conscious about her loud talk. But I looked up at his profile and saw that, yes, he was pleasant-looking. And an overall nice person.
She was bent on making me stay. When he, his manager, and a few friends, were sitting with Cleo and I while I attempted to pack, the musician asked how long I was staying in New York. Cleo told him I was staying a few more days. Not my plan--but whatever. Her vision of me and this guy seemed practical now, even likely. Especially when I saw a stop-motion music video he made. I thought, "How did I pass this up?"
Then I was in a tiny stand-alone kitchen, with steps leading up to it and a window. I arranged spices on shelves, and tapped the shelf after each move, as if I was clicking the mouse on a laptop. I pondered this half out loud, and spelled out my thoughts on an imaginary keyboard compulsively.
At some point Ian sent me a letter on Facebook saying he was coming to New York and wanted to see me. The salutation went from "Love," to "Injuredly," the second time I saw it. (Wtf?)
Some time in this dream I stood in an art gallery with the siblings, Kapil, and his Mom. His mom talked about having owned an art gallery. "What doesn't she do?" I wondered.
Then I was sitting on the ground trying to conjure up facebook in the sand to look up the musician's name. The colors were green and black. It kind of worked....I picked up an internet connection.
Morning came. I was laying in bed with the nice red haired guy. I felt totally friendly toward him and he toward me. He listened to his iPod and asked me, "What's something German to listen to in the morning?" I described to him a videogame in which small football players ran around the desert hitting big football players in the head with huge mallets and gulping up the little footballs (like Mario coins.) It was a jest...he had been a football player, I think. As I sat up on the foot of the bed, a fuzzy sleepy feeling around me, I noticed he had nice muscles. I didn't remember having sex with him and wondered how I ended up in this bed anyway.
I went into the kitchen of this house. Cleo was there with the siblings. She started boiling water to make pasta. I suppose earlier, the musician had told me he wanted pasta before he left for the next tour stop. The fat noodles came out and were delicious. He came over and appreciated them.
Then he went into the adjoining room, out of view, sitting with some other people on couches. The short-haired blonde chick from SBCC choir served everyone mixed drinks. She came to him and he rejected one. For a moment, I thought, "Oh good, he's chaste. He'll respect that I don't want to smoke weed." But he said, "Last time he got "knocked over." All my siblings and I laughed about this phrase. "It's like knocked up and hung over!"
Then in a flurry, I was packing in the backyard again. The musician wasn't around, had probably left to tour. I couldn't remember his name, but I wanted to hang out with him more. Luckily I found his manager and discovered he hadn't left. In casual conversation the manager dropped his full name--Nat Taylor. I pictured it written out with the first T as a backwards seven.
Next part: I was in the airport with Nigel and other peers. We were going to be scanned. A recent scandal from the news, of a girl who purposefully faked a new bomb, had added to the list of banned items. She had put the bomb in a soft cooler lunch box--which Nigel brought in the door, and had confiscated from him. Kids our age filed through the four metal detectors. Nigel and I were in a line on the left, and it was finally our turn! But the airline people paused the process to face the metal detectors another way, and because of the flipped configuration, the people on the right were in front, and we were in back.
Then dad yelled something and I woke up.
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