2004-01-16 - 8:28 a.m. I don't really remember where it started, but I do remember I was in this house/office building/outside area. And there was this huge table that I approached, and there were several people who I knew (no idea who they really are), and several people who were strangers.Was he a stranger at the beginning or did I meet him in the dream? I don't remember, but I do remember that Michael Stipe and I did get along quite well. We even realized that we had a friend in common- this tall black woman with shocking orange hair that I knew back in Murfreesboro (not real) (the woman's not real. The town does exist). We talked a good deal about our first impressions of this woman, how we met, stories we know of her. She was really cool. Michael was like any other of my dorky friends. We made bad jokes and talked about art and politics. It was neat. Then, it was snowing, and I went outside so that I could play with all the kids who were sitting in small groups, talking in the snow. They were behaving as though they were just sitting in a field on a warm summer's day. Meanwhile, the snow built up around them. Inches. Nay, feet. I wanted to build a snowman, but instead it became a snowball fight. The single most organized snowball fight in history. Only two people threw snowballs at a time while everyone else watched quietly. If they wanted out of the game, they threw a snowball at someone else, who then took up for them. The kids glared at me when I didn't originally get the rules, and just kept throwing snowballs even though it wasn't my turn. The snow started out as good packin' snow. I"m not sure what type of snow that is (Fabian assures me there are many), but the snowballs stayed together well. Then they started flying apart in two pieces. Then they scattered when thrown. Then they wouldn't stay together at all. I looked down, and I was packing together green grass and clovers. I stood up. I was wearing a blue sun dress that fanned out below the waist, like all the Mexican women in the movies wear. I danced around the table with Michael Stipe. Neither of us were good dancers, but it was fun anyway. Then i went off to work with my students. They wanted to go to this one place to eat, and they kept sayind it was just like "99". I was wondering what place on 99th street, but the place's name was a number, not 99. We went in and I remembered how, when I first got to Chicago, I had come with some of my students and had been so embarrassed to walk around in the place. No, shy is a better word. Apprehensive. I had stood by the door (this place doesn't exist, of course). This time, I strode boldly forth, all the way up to the counter, even though I wasn't hungry. I took a good look at the food as i walked. You take the best Mexican foods you can think of, and then make them absolutely slimy with grease, and that's what I saw there. Everything looked so disgusting, I didn't even think I could stay there. I was going to tell David this (he's a guy I've been working with all week on a paper on Existentialism.) I noticed that up on the shelves with all the nasty foods, were brightly colored bottles of name-brand soda pops of all varieties. they were equally disgusting looking. That's all I remember.
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