8.16.16

We were lead up an elevator to an all-white room, he and I, by a young boy with a shaved head and wearing all white. I sat in a tall, plush, white cushiony lazy boy in the middle of the room, and the boy sat on my lap. "He" was standing nearby. The boy switched on the large screen before us with a remote control. The screen projected a scenario of the three of us--I recognized the boy immediately, but much older, perhaps fifteen years into the future. There was a very vital reason why he was showing this to us, I knew deep inside my body; an immeasurable importance of our grand story flowed rapidly through my veins. 

In another dream, Chris Kraus at a fancy dinner party introduced me to a French-African man with a bizarre accent and a name spelled with symbols; she thought I might find his work intellectually interesting. The man was large and puffy-cheeked and filled with immense joy--he lead me down a rolling grassy hill in a now sunny part of a different country and I watched as he picked up discarded cans and trash and talk about how he used these found materials as a means to build homes based off the ancient structures of domiciles in these foreign lands. Using waste to fashion new historical imprints--it was true, I found him a fascinating person. Chris Kraus kept ordering shots of extremely expensive tequila. Everyone else at the dinner party annoyed me.