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3-22-1a
2nd Ave.: We're leaving work, Rita, a guy, and I. Rita stays on 2nd Ave as the guy and I walk down the alley. Apparently, she wanted me to stay with her, but I refused. She is in an agitated, internal state, not letting it show, but I know of it, I feel it myself, and must keep it contained within also, to avoid an empathetic reaction going out of control, causing me to act out, to take on her problem, whatever it is, as she stands, looking up 2nd Ave, calling out to someone (Sherry?), to wait for her, or to help her, or something. (Is she really calling out to me, but in a different direction? We were always heading in different directions.)
The guy and I get into a car (there is a brief scene/idea that we can't find the car¥) and drive out the parkway (implied scene; no imagery). At the Swissvale exit, Rita is with us again, and we are not in cars, but are in a great "depression," i.e., a "round valley" between Swisshelm Park and the parkway. We (Rita and I; the guy is now gone) must climb out of this. [The symbolism is obvious.] I go to the north side of the valley and begin to climb, helping Rita, who could not have gotten out of it by herself. At the top of the hill, we walk along a dirt road [reminiscent of the "low road," (in the neighborhood where I grew up) but more like as if it were in Forest Hills, i.e., "higher class."] We walk up to an intersection as if it were out in the middle of nowhere, nothing around except a gas station and a motel, and yet it's right on Braddock Ave. We get a room and we are about to go to bed, to get some rest, because we are exhausted from the "climb" (the ordeal we have been through). We are no longer ourselves, but an affluent couple, as if we are characters in a film. We are sophisticated, yet down-to-earth people, a husband and wife, who respect each other and are (sort of) in love, i.e., they, the characters, are in love, but have grown used to each other, so that the passion is not so much prevalent any more, but the comfort and tenderness still is. This is an implicit aspect of their relationship; it is not attended to overtly.
I leave her at the motel and walk up through the intersection (via a route not along the roadway, but alongside of it, as if I am in the narrowest end of the valley, just slightly below the road level. Part of the way there, I meet up with Steve (S). He's leading the way, inviting me to his house, which is on the hillside, part way up to the right of the Braddock Ave roadway, tucked in among trees in a slightly wooded, yet residential, area. I have with me a cutting from an herb-like plant which I wind around an arbor, or a tree branch, or both, trying to attach it so that it will begin to grow.

5-11-1c
I am under a huge tent-like structure, a roof with no walls, next to a high hillside in Indonesia. Something is happening up on the hill, as if a battle is going on and people are falling off the hillside down to where we are. There are many people under this structure taking care of many refugees from the fighting.
As I begin to prepare to leave, the place turns into an indoor mall. It's closing time and Indonesian guards/policemen are herding us out of the place. But I hang behind because I have to pee, and the guard lets me go to the men's room.
I walk out across a bare dirt field to the all-but-dirt road. Nothing is around, no other buildings, the "mall" stands alone in the middle of a barren field surrounded by sparse woods. I walk south down a long gradual slope adjacent to the road until I reach bottomland. It's late in the afternoon and I begin to worry about where I will spend the night. To the west among trees there are a few affluent residential homes, but otherwise there is nothing. I ask a few young kids in which direction the town is, but they don't know. I walk a little bit west and find some older kids and ask them if there's a town nearby with a hotel. They tell me that I have to go north about five miles. I go back up the hill the way I came, this time sticking to the road. At the mall, I leave the road and cross into the huge vacant lot and walk down another gradual slope in the opposite direction to the first one. The earth is a yellow-red clay. I walk through an outdoor area, which is also a huge bookstore, as if it is also covered like a tent, but it is not, it is open to the sky, but the high bookshelves give it a closed-in feeling. The woman who owns the place knows me. She greets me warmly because she hasn't seen me in a long time and has missed me. I don't remember her, but I act as if I do. She kisses me on the mouth, but she hurries to let me know that we are not going to get any more intimate than that. We talk about books and politics, in particular about the crisis in Indonesia. It becomes clear to me as we speak that this is an impossible political situation. Many rival factions control the same areas and their borders and spheres of influence are constantly shifting. I see it all laid out before me in my mind, various colors, all shades of yellow, red, and brown representing the political factions. It all makes sense, or rather, it makes no sense, but it is understandable why the place is the way it is, chaos abounding, hope of a fair and just government non-existent.

7-8-1a
old [jobsite]: a large room filled with electronics tables: I am given a circuit board from a (my) Bell & HowellTM TV construction kit by a boss, an older, short, but chubby sort of guy in a frumpy brown suit. I let him know, somehow, that I understand the board and its function, although I don't say any of this to him. [By my demeanor, I "pretend" to knowledge I don't have (although I am familiar with the subject matter enough to seem to possess the knowledge), but I will acquire the knowledge as I work. This is my "genius," that I can learn anything. But this is also the "lie" I present to people. This is why people will assume I am competent, and this is why they will allow me to go my own way (which is my whole purpose; I have an agenda that dictates that I manipulate situations so that I am an independent entity.)] But after I take the circuit board and am left to do whatever it is I have to do with it, I realize I can do nothing. Without the step-by-step instructions, I am lost and do not know how to proceed. I tell this to R, and I indicate to her that I do not want the project. But I am torn on this point, because I do want to participate in the project, but in a way that I know what to do. As she heads toward r to tell him, thinking she's going to "save" me from having to do the project, thinking she is helping me out, I fight myself, as I hedge, trying to hold her back---because I want to be a part of the overall project, even though I don't know how to assemble the circuit board. But I can't stop her (because I don't really want to) and she informs r. [R "helps" me (in my real life employment) by trying to do what it is she thinks I want, but she only sees half the picture. She "reports" (gossips, tattles) to r, et al., thinking she is acting in my best interest, but being unable to see the whole picture, uninformed re my other (inner) side, that which I hide, she does more harm than good. And it is not so clear that she "intends" (in the unconscious agenda sense) to do only good. There could be unconscious, and even conscious, vindictive motives at work.]
rai: I explain to r that I could have done the project, if I had the instructions that came with the kit. But without them I am lost.
fai: I understand the conflict: I feel that I am not (have not been) supported in the work that I do. (The instructions = support) I must do it on my own--but mainly because that's the way I want it, that is my agenda. In other words, I engineer the situations I find (found) myself in, in order to get what I want, to be the independent entity, and I "sell" myself in this way. People who hire me do so with the understanding, true or not, that I am highly competent and self-starting. They hire me for my "genius," and then they fail to support me (and everyone needs support), especially because I myself indicate in subtle, subliminal ways that I don't welcome the support. This is my flaw: I desire complete autonomy, which leads eventually to associates coming to the decision that I am not a "team player," which I am not, and proud of it. But the irony is: that's why they hired me in the first place, for my independence. The fault (flaw) is as much theirs as mine. Solution to this dilemma: take on short term projects only. One or two years, no more. Don't allow them to drag out and become mired in personality differences that become irresolvable. [I would implement this immediately if I thought I needed to work for a living. After several years of introspection, there are a number of things I would do now that I did not know to do before. That's life. (That's what all the people say.) That's what it's for, learning from experience.]

7-15-1a
Old workplace, customer service on 4th floor, but as if it is the 3rd: I am helping to establish "secret" orders. ["Orders" in this sense, as a dream concept, are actual customer orders, but the symbolic meanings are "instructions" and "organization/control"; these are agendas that are known by only an elect few in the company, but are predominant "forces" within the company; there is also the idea of "religious" orders, which is fairly accurate metaphor for the attitude we were expected to take toward the company and our work.] I meet S and we talk in the elevator/stairwell [an out-of-the-way place where we "commune." We don't actually say anything, but our transaction is effective (re the secret orders.) This is an "understanding" we have about how the place is to be run. But because it is never actually stated, when I implement it and it goes badly, I can be blamed for it, because it is not "official" policy.]
Outside in the alley, I prepare to leave in my "truck," which is, at the same time, a very small pick-up, a very small van, and a compact hatchback. CS has dropped off a mattress {a mattress is a thing you sleep on; CS enables my "sleep?" (Dreaming and/or repression?) Dream symbols, according to Freud, are a means of repression, a way that the mind has of turning the "latent dream thoughts" into the "manifest dream" (pictures), so that the latent material is disguised.} and has left the keys hidden inside the truck and locked the doors. I can't get into the truck. [Or, the mattress could be an agenda from my previous job (which is where I know CS from), and since it is slept on, it could be an unconscious agenda, one that CS carried out for me after I was "laid off." I can't get back to the old agenda.] CS put the mattress inside the "truck," laid in along its length, on the passenger's side. This space is too narrow to accommodate a mattress, but this one, paradoxically, fits without any apparent discrepancy. I also have another car parked across the alley, a newer expensive silver subcompact, like an Audi or a Volvo. [S had a Volvo. This is my new agenda, S's. It's a subcompact because it is not so important as I thought it was.] There is also a sense in which CS dropped off the truck, thus leaving me with two vehicles. The "truck" is older, but the "Volvo" is new. [My old and new agendas. Cf. a recent dream wherein db brings two cars, one of which must be towed by the other.] I can't get the 2nd car started. [Now, because of the events that have transpired, I can't get into the 2nd agenda. But I can't get back to the first either. But, actually, I don't need either. This is a revelation. I thought I needed the old one, or I wanted to get back to the old one. But I don't need it. I should be moving forward, not backward.] Something about the police station on the corner of 1st and Grant. I am there (with the police) examining the cars (?) [I was a "policeman" for the company. I now investigate my agendas.]
I go home with db. [I don't know what vehicle we're in. Maybe hers. Maybe her agenda was the right one all along. Nah.] I am very tired. [my chronic exhaustion after leaving the company] We drive up Rodi Rd and when we get home, I am very "tender" toward her, in a way I never was. I kiss her on the sides of her mouth, very gently and tentatively. We are both tentative. She finally decides we're okay. She's happy with me, and vice versa.
We go to a Home DepotTM (across the Highland Park Bridge.) [There's no store there, in reality, but this is a major "intersection" on the way to the new workplace location. We're at a "crossroads" here.] F [a workplace employee/troublemaker] is an employee of the store. She is questioning db about our relationship as she ostensibly helps her with her purchase. She asks her if we've gotten back together. db is planning to buy small panel-like garden decorations to use as the surrounding frame for a screen to project movies onto, as a project for her church. A salesman is helping her after F disappears. The owner [S?] shows up and together they discuss the plans. [? The "plans" are re me? These people are a dream coalition established (by me?) to review and discuss my progress/development? F is the more "social" (i.e., gossipy") aspect of the analysis, replaced by the more "objective" others. S & salesman (salesmen in general) are authority figures. I hate this interpretation. I despise it. So it must be correct.] The project will be to show films in the living room of our home, charging admission that will be donated to charity. All expenses are to be borne by the workers, not the church. [Of course.] [Generally, I don't think this is good idea, this benevolent charity act, but this belief is suspended. I act out db's agenda, or rather; I act in its best interest.]
bai: I continue the "analysis" in place of the salesman and owner. I suggest an alternative: I don't think the screen is going to be large enough, so I double the size. I point out that the panels are cheap (less than a dollar each), so we can afford it. But I work, slyly, to convince the owner that he should donate the materials, as a charitable contribution, and since the cost is minimal, he agrees.

7-18-1b
Verona, hill going up to St. Joe's[¥]: This is a town in the Old West, circa 1900 or later. (There's enough technology around to indicate that it's the end of an era. I am a person of relative local importance, but only by virtue of the fact that I have been around awhile, having grown up in the area and become thoroughly versed in its history and politics. I become the local sheriff, but the role is primarily a tacit one, since there is no crime and nothing to enforce. The area beyond the hill is a growing residential one, not literal in its location, as if it were Oakmont, but "over the hill," whereas in the real world, the only over the hill is woods, and it is far beyond this more immediate place. Something happens, some event, down in the town proper (i.e. Verona), which is more of a Western town and sparsely populated, with stretches of barren lowlands out beyond it to the river (which does not exist here; the lands stretch out into barren wilderness. The something that happens is something like a shooting, although there are no details (remembered.) I am called upon to resolve the difficulties. [Old West: this is old material. I am an authority figure, but a tame one. I am equal to the task, but not in the way that traditional thinking defines it, i.e., I "govern" via expectation rather than by direct interference. (Sort of ala James Stewart in Destry Rides Again.)]
Continuation, without discrepancy as scene changes to bottom of (upper) Rockcliff Rd. at Poketa, but as if it is an extension of the Verona hill, beyond the hills east of town, and at the same time, somewhere in Oakland, as if near the golf course, at its eastern edge: I am still the sheriff. As if we are just older than teenagers, or I am, and the others are just younger than I, we sit at the corner, looking out toward a road (beyond Rockcliff, which is not there) that skirts the area, to the east. Two girls walk up the road. I ask the guy nearest to me, "Who's that?" He knows without asking which girl I mean. In a tone of voice that indicates that I already know her, or know of her, he says, "That's Angel. She's the girl who caused all the trouble in town." (The trouble had to do with her and with a teenage gunman, ala a Billy the Kid type of character. I'm interested in her, and the guys with me all know it.
I am important, an important presence in the (small) world that I exist in. I am a respected member of the community. I do not see this in my normal everyday waking life. I go along placidly from day to day, very much aware of my local environment, but as if I have nothing to do with it, when in reality I am a primary force in it, operating at a distance, via observation, making sure everything runs okay, not interfering as long as the status quo is maintained, and very much interested in the "angels" who happen by, especially when they are of a "disruptive" nature, i.e., bad girls.

7-18-1c
Graham Blvd, just beyond Laketon Rd.: a young woman, short black hair, thin straight build, but not boyish, has taken control of a business, as if the office environment spans the street, the houses being offices, the street being a center aisle/open area. I am a quasi-employee, not subject to her authority, and so I can act freely, and speak to her freely, whereas every other employee cannot, out of fear, reveal their true selves. [Being the ego-analysand and, at the same time, the super-ego-self-analyst, I am free to reveal repressed contents to myself, whereas other employees (my more ordinary selves), who interestingly are conspicuously absent, out of fear, may not. This is a stretch.)] She has come in from the outside to troubleshoot, or consult, or reorganize, or whatever. Her authority is near-absolute, and everyone is cautious of her, to the point where no one is around. She examines the operations alone, except for me. We talk, and I get around to telling her about an Italian film I saw, about a woman (very much like herself, but I don't tell her this, but it's the reason I bring it up) who is hired by a company to reorganize it. She says with enthusiasm that she saw that film, and she goes on to talk about it in detail, describing its plot and action. I understand from her behavior that she has based her self-image on that film, and I'm secretly proud of myself for having made the connection. As she goes about her job, I see that she is the woman in the film, i.e., she acts out the role, as if I am watching the film from inside it. [In reality, there is no film; it's a convenience I create. Thus, the film, a meta-symbol, is the dream.] I get close to her as she "works." (She isn't doing anything really, except walking around.) I walk with her. We both observe. She observes the work environment (there is no work being done; there is only the empty residential neighborhood) while I observe her. I stay close to her, as close as possible, even as close as inches away, my face close to hers. I can feel her presence as a subtle physical sensation.
We go to a house in a residential neighborhood some distance away (location unknown, but as if it is somewhere in one of the affluent housing plans beyond Rte 22.) We knock on the door of a nice home. (They're all nice in this neighborhood.) A woman answers the door. A toddler is playing in the living room. We ask for _____. We tell her we're from his work, i.e., she tells her. I am silent. The woman asks us in. ___ comes into the room. He's a good-looking guy, a corporate type, Mr. Conformity, with a sort of George Clooney appearance, but not quite as handsome. He wears a dark knit shirt and dark, light-weight trousers, casual, but dignified. But he is disheveled, as if he has been sick, or sleeping, or emotionally upset. He greets us (her primarily) and without waiting to be asked, he immediately begins to make excuses for his absence from work. He's been sick, he says, but he's greatly improved now. She isn't buying into his "poor-me" act at all. Her non-responsiveness prompts him to go on. [Silence is power, creating expectation.] He escalates his excuses/apology through several levels, telling her he will be back at work soon, and concluding that he will back to work tomorrow, even though he may still be slightly sick. "Make sure that you are," she says, her first real instructions to him. "Be there ready to work." We leave. I stay close to her as we walk to the car. We stand in front of the car and talk about the guy for a very short while. She asks me if I think he'll be there, and I say, "Oh, yes. He'll be there." We get into the car.
fai: She drives down a deserted side street overhung by trees, no houses. She pulls over to the side of the road. Without a word, she looks at me intensely, and then she quickly comes at me and we passionately kiss. She climbs on top of me and we hurriedly undo each others clothes just enough to expose the necessary body parts. We engage quickly. Other than heavy breathing, she doesn't make a sound, and so I hang on as we keep at it. I'm preoccupied with trying to determine if she is satisfied as all the while she is more actively moving, still never revealing her state of pleasure. Finally, I say, "Tell me when." Immediately she says, "Now, now. Yes. Now."
After I'm done, she gets off me quickly and retreats back behind the wheel. Almost breathless, she announces, "We can never do that again."
"Right."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"Let's make a firm rule right now. Never again."
"Okay."
She looks at me as if she doesn't believe me, and then she looks away.
She says, "There can't be any hint of impropriety."
"I know."
She looks at me in the quickest way, with the briefest furtive glance.
"I mean it."
"I know."
She doesn't look at me. She doesn't believe me, I can tell.
She starts the car, puts it in gear, but she doesn't go anywhere.
She looks at me for a longer while, and she takes a deep breath.
"Really. I can't afford it. You can't afford it."
I recognize the implied threat, but I disregard it. I know how to act.
"I know," I say, with no hint of emotion, nothing to give me away.
She doesn't believe me or she doesn't believe herself.
She looks straight ahead again, and then she starts to move the car.
She drives about fifty feet and then she stops, staring straight ahead.
She wants me to say something, to tip my hand, to start the argument.
I do not reveal my intent, my hidden (often even from myself) agenda.
She takes half a breath and holds it.
She says, "I may be in trouble here." She doesn't look at me.
"No. You're not."
"You don't understand."
"Yes. I do."
She looks at me.
I say, "You're not going to do anything. You're fine."
She looks away.
"Okay?" I ask. She stares straight ahead.
"I don't want you looking at me while we're at work."
"I can't not look at you," I say with unaffected false incredulity.
"Yes you can."
"It's impossible."
She looks pleadingly at me.
"You'll be fine," I say.
She moves the car on ahead and turns at the corner. She is obviously upset. I can see it through her stoic facade. Whereas before her appearance revealed a genuine hard core, now it failed to conceal a softening center. Probably, no one but me would ever notice it, but you never know. These things get noticed and acted on unconsciously. Chinks in the armor do not have to be consciously attended to to be penetrated.
I say, "There's an easy solution to this dilemma, you know."
She slows and turns to me.
"See me after work. Then we can be totally isolated from each other otherwise while we do our jobs."
She speeds back up as she says, "I don't think so."
"Why not? It's a perfect solution."
"It won't work."
"Sure it will. It works all the time."
"People get in trouble for doing that."
"Only if it becomes known."
"It always becomes known."
"Only because the woman wants it known. That's a woman's agenda."
"Men talk too."
"Not me. I got thing about that."
"What thing?" She looks at me, and then she looks quickly away.
"I hate it when men talk about women. I never do it."
"Yeah. Right."
I don't respond.
She looks at me, as if to assess whether or not she believes me.
"You mean you think we can date and no one will ever know."
"If that's what you want to call it. No one will know if you don't tell them, or hint at it. Women have unconscious agendas, you know, that let things like this out."
"Not me. And men have them too."
"Not me."
She smiles slightly, for the first time since the sex. She says, "It's a political matter. If it becomes a power problem, you'll reveal it."
"Hey. You got the power. I already know that. As a matter of fact, that's a big part of your attraction for me."
She smiles, more broadly this time. I knew she'd like that.
"We have to have rules."
"Okay. I got two rules for you. Political rules."
I intentionally do not state them, until she asks, "What are they?"
"One: What people don't know they can't act on. Two: Spin everything to your own agenda."
She agrees, without saying a word or indicating agreement in any way. Her non-response is indicative of her agreement. I knew she couldn't resist the argument when put in those terms.
"Okay," she says. "Well try it. But you better be perfect about it, or..."
I didn't have to ask, "Or what?" I already knew. But I knew that she couldn't ultimately, get to me. I didn't care about the job, or any job. She was the only one with anything to lose. She didn't know that, or she never would have agreed. But I know myself fairly well in this regard, and I know I would never act, even unconsciously, to hurt her. I knew I'd even sacrifice myself for her, if need be. But this time I had a feeling that it needn't be. After a pause, it was back to business again, so I knew we'd be okay.
"What did you think of _____?" she asked.
"He's a sleaze."
She laughed.
"How should I handle him? Should I fire him?"
"No. Ride herd over him, get all the work you can out of him, and then fire him, when his usefulness is done."
She smiled. "You're as ruthless as I am."
"I doubt it." She looked at me and smiled again.
It seemed she couldn't stop smiling now.
"And rule number three," she said. "Don't look at me at work."
I agreed, knowing I had every intention of breaking the rule. She'd have to live with that. And I knew there'd be other rules too, as we went along. But as long as the first two rules were not broken, none of the other rules would matter.

7-31-1a
I am a production manager for The David Letterman Show¥. Dave is disturbed by hangers-on who populate the set or hang around just outside the doors of the studio that has a huge picture window behind Dave's desk where people can look in and watch the taping. It falls to me to straighten out the situation, weed out the riff-raff, and tone the place down to a more professional atmosphere. I begin to make choices, who stays, who goes. I kick out a guy, a salesman type, who sleazes around, trying to ingratiate himself with everyone.
The foyer between the studio and the entrance becomes a garage, and I meet several young guys in their late teens who are interested in cars, particularly in mine, a super-customized '83 Toyota Corolla. They appreciate me for my work (on the car) and for my interest in cars in general. And I appreciate their interest in me.
They (we) become a rock band, and I am the singer. But in another sense, they are the band and I am off on the side, some kind of an observer/roadie/business manager. As they go off to the side of the "garage" {which is now a sort of ski resort, but in summer, with huge picture windows [not where Dave's window was (south wall), but on the east wall, which is the edge of a huge enclosed patio-like addition with a scenic view overhanging a deep valley]} to perform, a kid has gotten from them a bag of candy. He's eating it, but I take it from him, showing him what's wrong with it. It contains two colors of a kind of shredded sugary substance, but I show the kid that there are (blue?) lumps in it. He still continues to eat it (he takes it back), because the lumps are not harmful, just stuff introduced into the candy by the band. (The impression is that their content is not so socially acceptable. In this sense, I am the social agent, the manager, the guardian of impropriety, the underling, the stooge. I don't think I like this role.)

8-14-1b
The Adventure of My Life

Verona Rd, in the valley below the dog kennels: I ride wooden logs, about a foot long and as wide, down the hill (toward the south.) At the bottom of the valley, I am set to the task (by Joyce?) of chopping wood and doing other domestic chores. I work my way back into the woodsy area wherein a house (Joyce's? Dianne's?) is located. The area off the road enters another valley perpendicular to the road. A road (non-existent in reality) runs along a wide creek which (paradoxically) narrows as it approaches Verona Rd., although it runs in its direction (i.e., at Verona Rd. it is a small creek, but as I follow it deeper into the area it becomes almost a river.) The area's valley walls rise slightly as it goes deeper. I walk up onto the southern ridge, which is heavily wooded. We, Jimmie and I, find a lot of books. Jay is down below, halfway down the hillside. An old dead tree falls in front of me down the hill. It kills Jay. I am sorry for this, but there doesn't seem to be so much pain or worry at its occurrence among the family. It is not so tragic an event, which leads me to speculate that the symbolic meaning of the death is not so serious as an actual death would be. I go down the hillside and walk through the woods to a place where the trees start to thin out. Ahead, there is some kind of an extended social gathering, sparsely dispersed up the valley, as if it is a kind of loose celebration of a number of family groups, connected, but separate. It's early evening and there is the hint of house lights and campfires, although there is no actual imagery of these. The houses seem "open" to the forest, as if they have no doors and windows, but are more like pavilions, except that they are actual houses. There is no actual imagery of these either.
We walk on, Mason and I. It's daylight again and we come into a wide hillside field. Although the location has not changed, it's as if we are on the slope above Young Henry's place to the south of Poketa. Mason is tracking something in the snow. (It's mid-summer, but snow covers the ground, but only in this area.) Mason points out to me small holes in the snow, which he attributes to a bear. At first, I don't understand how he could know these are indications of a bear, but then I begin to see, as if his suggestion has causes me to visualize them in the snow, bear tracks, vague at first, but more predominant as we go on. We track the bear into a side valley that runs perpendicular to the main valley. It's a dead end. The bear has gone up it and the slopes are very steep so that I think the bear will not be able to get up them, and so it must be trapped. The valley resembles a gigantic cave, as it is covered over by a canopy of trees. I refuse to go any further and I turn north. Mason tries to encourage me to follow him, but I refuse. He won't go without me. I go down to the bottomland and head toward the creek, which is very wide at this point. It is seven miles long with many fishing pools.¥
association: the world is becoming like a Hobbit village w areas of natural land sparsely populated by houses/people, evenly dispersed across the world (even the wildest areas seem to be nearing this ideal, e.g., the Congo.) The real tragedy is that these areas will become citified instead of tamed (c.f., the abandonment/deteriorization of cities).

8-28-1b
In a large gym-like room, like an operating room of a hospital, but not: A lot went on ahead of this that I can't remember. Jim is being operated on. He's lying face down on a gurney, attached to a machine that's keeping him alive while he waits for a heart whose arrival is imminent. This is a highly charged and "dangerous" situation for him, but Jim and the others (Mom, Dad, et al.) are taking it in stride.
I become the doctor and I walk through the large room overwhelmed with the pathos of it all. I feel like at any moment I could burst out crying, but it's not so much a painful experience as a joyful one--or both painful and joyful at the same time. I meet a colleague who asks me how it's going. I begin, slowly, to confide in him. I tell him I am barely hanging on. I describe how I feel, like the whole world is a charged atmosphere threatening to flow over me and overwhelm me, like each person I am near is both so very close and yet so very far away. (In the dream I had the perfect words for this experience, which now I can't remember.) The other doctor says that he's glad I told him these things, that he feels very privileged that I've confided in him in this way. I tell him that he shouldn't take this as a belittlement of what he feels, because in no way should what I'm about to say decrease the importance of his presence and counsel at this moment, but I could have told anyone who had approached me at this moment this same thing with the same resultant feeling, that I feel like I could open up and confide to any person and cause them to react in just this same way to me.

9-13-1b
1) In some kind of a park with my family and a db-like girl: she's pouting. [This is me in disguise. See later.] We go inside a church-like building, like an auditorium, or a gym with a stage. The girl is having a hard time, and I am trying, gently, to make her feel better. We are on a short vacation, returning home from somewhere around D.C. We sit at an eight-foot folding table in front of the stage. On the table are what looks like large candied (heavily iced) pastries for sale. I take one of them and start to eat it. A waitress stands nearby. First, I eat the coating around the pastry. As I eat a leaf from the confection (which looks like a plant), I state to the waitress that it's a real leaf, candied. I like it. But then, I discover that the center of the "pastry" is a real potted plant. All that is left of the plant is the bare stems sticking up out of the dirt in the clay pot. I'm very disappointed, and I let the waitress know it. But I pay anyway, giving the waitress two twenties (each confection is very expensive), which lets her know that I'm paying for everyone's snack. The waitress is impressed that I'm paying for everyone, and she gives me back one of the twenties, as a discount because I was disappointed.
2) Back at home, in an apartment-like room that transitions into db's house and/or a 6023-like living room/dining room combo, db, Sue, and I are having a good time. I'm cutting my hair, by feel, without looking at it. I go over to a mirror near the door to see how I'm doing, and I notice that my hair is black. At first, I'm happy with this. But then I notice that the hair is highlighted with silver dots, not as gray hair, but as a regularly spaced pattern. I realize that db has had this done to me without me knowing it when we were on vacation, by the waitress who was also a hairdresser. I begin to get pissed, and I begin to withdraw and pout. As I'm walking past Sue, I shove a handful of hair at her, which she gathers up against her chest to keep it from falling to the floor. Sue and db think I look good and are happy just to wait out my anger. I gather up my things and prepare to leave and I tell them that, although it hurts me to make this decision, I am leaving for good. This is designed to make them sad, and it works. [But I know that such a ploy is short-lived as to its desired affect and that the long-term effect is that I will be without them (which I now am.)]

12-16-1a
A huge front yard of a house on Shenandoah Dr., near the top, but as if the road is the driveway (a huge circular one) and the house is the only one on the street. It's a ranch-style house, practically a one-floor mansion, with large spreading wings, the western one containing a pool room where you can dress before entering the pool out front, in the middle of the circular drive: A teenage girl, tall, blond, rich, is entertaining me, treating me nicely. We sit out front on a concrete bench facing west on the west side of the drive. No one else is home. She fucks me, and she has a good time, and acts as if she loves me. But a kind of nerdy teenage guy comes along, and she fucks him too, out of pity, because he's in love with her, and thereby I see her true self. She acts in the same kind way toward all men. I'm not so hurt as I might expect myself to be. Just a little sad. But she picks up on this and is sorry. She didn't know I felt so seriously about her. We make love again, this time on the east side of the drive, nearer to the main road under some trees. She starts to fall in love with me and begins to regret her past. The more I pay attention to her, the more she wants us to be exclusive.
When I awaken, I think that maybe this was Amanda. I may have been getting personal info from her psychically.
addendum (1-11-2):
Less than a month later, I see a woman in a grocery store who lives on Shenandoah. Although she doesn't look like this girl, I feel there is a connection.