Dreams June 11, 2011

Dreams of St. Albans:

On an airplane to Indiana. Near Alabama (Baton Rouge I say). The pilot asks me questions. A beautiful girl is being abused, harrassed by some fuck. I tell him to chill, he takes offense. It escalates. I ask him if he reads USA Today. He says, “He's an asshole, not an idiot”.

...Walking through a bizarre, like somewhere in Morocco with Jason Charles. He talks about money; investment stuff, not real money.

Finally we get to his ride: a silver motorcycle. He rides us on absurd dangerous trails, highways in the sky, icy, covered in ice past wreckage and bodies.

I ask him to cut the threads from my teeth. He does at two separate places. One is a public bathroom.

We park and descend through a scaffold of paths fraught with danger. Two or three pairs of pants fall from guys who dissolve. Some sort of reagent or acid.

In NYC he says he lives at the end of the #2 train. We end up in an imaginary place I dream of. St. Alban's park area. This is a place that appears in many of my dreams. I look for alprazolam in my coat. There are russians in a NYC apartment. It feels so familiar. The St. Albans park is familiar. Just outside Manhattan, in Queens.