Perhaps this is not the appropriate time to relate these incidents, as I have been relieved of many of the anxieties and the proximity of emotional engagement engendered by these dreams through discussion with my friend Lenny, whom I feel open enough to discuss honestly these experiences. His suggestion of writing this dream concurring with my own initial desire to do so, I hereby relate perhaps the most disturbing subconcious manifestations that I have yet encountered. That these things could not be in their ultimate sense is obviated by my willingness to awake before the final conclusion; but these things will become evident as the dream unfolds.

The only remaining preface of interest regards my physical and mental state prior to experiencing my dreams: after quite of day of song-writing and magazine shopping, the latter yielding particularly interesting results, I attended the bachelor party of my friend Pat's brother-in-law. This was held in the Ukranian National Home, and was attended by cheap keg beer, bad sandwiches, pretzels and cornchips. After my lunch of pizza and chocolate peanuts, my health was in an unquestionably dubious state.

During almost the entirety of the party, pornographic films of various quality were shown, which ceaseed only for the presentation of a strip-tease artist; her act was curtailed slightly by the groom's momentary departure to vomit, and her private explanation to the groom's brother that "everyone's pretty fucked-up"; this I learned after the show had ended, and explained the party's failre to purchase for the groom oral gratification. The films returned (actually video tapes) and after midnight I left in a peculiar state of agitation. My studio up and configured, I played for a brief time, read a chapter of Anna Karenina, and fell asleep.

Several times during the night I awoke to urinate and drink deeply water; I had not been drunk either when I left the party, nor when I went to sleep. However the dehydrating effects of alcohol seemed to have wrung my body dry, and at 9:00 AM I awoke thirsty and in pain: my head ached, I longed to return to sleep. Uncomfortably I lapsed into unconciousness, and did not again awaken until I extricated myself from the dream that I will describe following this preface. To what extent the preceding descriptions influenced my subconcious mind I can not accurately gauge; suffice it to say that I consider this prelude as necessary to the understanding of this dream:

I find myself walking through a hall with friends and co-workers- the only person I can recall with certainty is Steve B from MONY. The hall is actually a series of halls in a 60's fashion, with marbled floors, wide with metal accoutrements. The accurate description of this environment evades me, though I can link it with the hall of my high school. However I know that we are in the New York State Fair, somehow akin to the Center of Progress, though a building less like the Center of Progress I can not imagine.

The hall consists of several halls, each of perhaps 40 feet in length, then turning at obtuse angles into another hall. Various displays are present, but they are widely scattered, and not particularly important to the muted conversations that my group is engaged in.

I walk down a step from one hallway to another, and alone from my group approach a display. The woman at the desk is Theresa F from my high school, a woman whom I never knew well; in fact, the last time I met her was seven or eight years prior, at a party of a friend's, where she enthusiastically described rather insipid revelations of her student-teaching experiences. However, her role was quite different in this dream.

She began imploring me with guilt, that I was irresponsible and inattentive. I explained that I was very busy, laying emphasis on the word 'busy.' Her identity then interchanged with that of Carolyn, a girl from my high school that I had paired off with, but for reasons of misuderstood latency had never courted; her image never changed to Carolyn's, however. She mentioned Carolyn to me, laying upon me more guilt, and then began to weep in a quiet manner. I walked away and rejoined my group, lamely explaining that I knew her from high school.

Abruptly I am looking down from above a prison door, such that I can not see the prison, but simply the scene from the door and beyond. Two men in prison garb emerge warily, holding black and silver rifles aloft in the palms of their hands. In their grey suits they briefly discuss their strategy, and take off at a trot up Warren St, past the Galleries, a large downtown shopping mall.

The location of the prison now established as that of my work place, I continue to look from my perspective above, still not seeing the building from which the actors emerge. A man in a green jump suit, perhaps armed at first but soon unarmed, leaves the building from a separate exit on the same facing of the prison; it appears that a major window of escape has occurred!

My perspective to this man focuses closer and closer until I am this man; we know that we cannot follow the other two prisoners, who have just trotted out of range. Momentarily confused, I decide to take refuge in the Plymouth Church School across the street.

I enter the building and am faced with a staircase quite similar to that of the Ukranian Home which I had visited (in my concious state) the night before. An older couple enter behind me, and together we walk up the stairs, I two steps before them. I have entered under pretense of belonging to the Church, they to visit a relative or friend. Now the Church has become a Senior Citizen's/Invalid home and an orphanage, although the latter is not clearly established until later in the dream.

At the landing of gleaming brown-yellow hardwood the couple attain entrance to the apartment of their friend. I stand alone contemplating: "I must seek refuge and secure my safety, but the only way that I can imagine this is to enter the apartment of an invalid older woman and strangle her; I cnnot with certainty explain how I will attain my goal in this way, but like Raskolnikov I know that this is the requirement.

And that requirement is abhorrent to me: I picture myself with my hands around the woman's neck choking her, and can not conjure the will to execute the act. But I must do something, for I am hunted.

I begin walking about the building, and enter a dining hall/entertainment room. Many people are there, sitting at small tables dining, nurses with children. The lighting is dark, and I attempt to walk with authority, as though I belonged here. I walk past a doorway where a bar is fashioned inside, and alcove of the room. no alcohol is serverd here, and a 'bartender' stands behind the wood counter. A child of perhaps six sits on a table stool. The children consistently have not concerned themselves with my presence, but the adults all look up furtively at me, and I read contempt in their brows.

I exit the dining hall and wander the building, attempting to find the landing described before. I ascend a set of stairs that appear identical to those I had first walked up, and find myself on an identical landing to that I had stood upon before. But where the older woman's apartment had been is no a doorway to the dining hall.

Dismayed and frustrated I descend the stairs toward the door I had entered in, only to be met by a nurse who says "we know who you are." Before my fright and bewilderment can grow I am transported to another hall; two policemen stand next to me. Dressed in black uniforms, they are in their early forties; one stands mute, but the other accosts me: "You can go in there or you can do it the right way," he says, indicating to the door of a large bank vault. "1st National Bank" is the aluminum logo and the walls are of a solid dark green marble. The hall is wide, and an indoor palm tree stands near the door.

I back away and attempt to say "No, no. You've got it wrong," but the police officer steps foward, grabbing my left arm at the bicep firmly, saying "I'm glad you've decided this way."

Quickly he pulls his gun from the holster and swiftly raises it to my left temple, angled up, pulling the tirgger in two quick, easy actions.

Feeling no pain I drop to the floor and they leave me. For a moment all is quiet; then I consider. I must not be dead, because I have not lost my bowel control. I feel pressure on my anus, and coniser that I also should have lost bladder control. "Why," I wonder, "Did they not finish me?"

There is no pain, and I begin to consider that the angle of the gun was too high, and that the lobes blasted were not sufficient to kill me. Perhaps this will cure me instead?

I raise my head slowly and look down at a magazine, lying on the floor in front of me; it is of newsprint quality. A liquid like that oozingfrom a scab appears as a drop before me. I steeple my index fingers.

From my right the officer approaches. "I guess I didn't finish you." He pulls out his revolver; I more sense him than see him as he raises the gun and aims the muzzle at me.

I cannot bear this final shot, this inevitable ending, and with force I extricate myself from sleep, slowly, fearing constantly the shot.

For twenty minutes I lay in bed, my head aching and my right sinus dry and blocked.

[written in Syracuse ~1988]