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A bunch of dreams, and then some more dreams. Dreams within dreams. Is life itself a dream? Why are these all called Dreamscapes, anyway? Who are we and where do we come from?

Dreams i (14/26)

September 19, 1991

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A strand of hair winds its way around my wrist and I untwine it, untwirl it and let it float… only to find it still attached? Crikey! 8 feet long at least, twisted + snarled, finally, to my bracelet (African in origin… Elizabeth in origin) on my wrist. 8 feet long it was.

I’m lying in this bed, here, Jules’ apartment, facing west, that is, toward the foot of the bed. Scrabble board warps and snaps clear into focus. Kevin (Met) has just spelled “SERVIETTE” hitting the triple word score. I hear Eric (Hem’s) saying how that will put Kev into the lead. Kev seems doubtful. Eric says, of course! Meanwhile I try to determine whether “serviette” is a word. I slyly mention the possibility of challenging, hoping to acquire further info or evidence based on their response. Eric says, “What!” Then (referring to me?), “He’s so stupid. He thinks it’s a little waiter.” Kev openly laughs, then looks serious at me. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know if it’s a word either. I challenge. I have a horrible time finding the section of the dictionary since I’m terribly stoned. I realize that I’m looking around D, then swiftly flip to the back hoping nobody noticed this. No serviette. I say this softly, to Kev. His eyes are watery, wide and sympathetic but nonetheless he seems surprised. 

The likelihood is that the fault lies with the dictionary, not the word, but I press my advantage: “What’d you think? Serviette, like a napkin?”

Eric, very defensive, also surprised by the deficiency: “Well, yeah… whatever.”

“In French… or Spanish maybe!”

Kevin reluctantly removes his letters.

Eric is going on about how bad I am. He’s relating a parable about how the management is reluctant to assign me a hard section or table because they don’t think I can handle it. He’s mumbling, or around the corner and I say, “What? WHAT?”

I’m frantically shuffling my letters which have turned physically large + blocky, w/o point-value and little else to indicate their connection to the game. I consider trading them in, shaking the bag, drawing a whole new set, this time avoiding the splintered blocks. I look up, playing my trump card, “It’s tough,” I say, my eyes wide + honest, attempting to solicit understanding and maybe empathy. “…to play when you’re stoned. I’m totally stoned.”

I go back to my rack without waiting for a response.


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