Good morning, everybody.
I was in a dark room like a mix between a living room and part of a factory. There were a number of other people in the room with me. But it also felt like I was sleeping in the room alone. I was laying on the couch, mostly covered by a blanket. The other people in the room were beyond my feet, and I never saw them.
I had been facing the back of the couch. But now I turned around. There was a window high on the wall opposite the couch. A gauzy white curtain was blowing in the breeze, occasionally letting in a clear view of the starry night outside. I could see the moon and stars. The moon was huge.
In front of the moon ran two electrical wires. Both wires had plastic nodes on them. The plastic nodes flashed red and blue, in some kind of pattern. I had a feeling that this pattern had something to do with a new digital technology.
Suddenly President Obama began speaking. He may have been in the room or somewhere just outside the window, or he may have been transmitting his voice by whatever technology the electric lines and flashing lights were using.
President Obama was speaking about the Muppets character Fozzie Bear. Fozzie may have been Baby Fozzie, from the Muppet Babies. Obama said that Fozzie had had some specific reaction to the flashing lights. Because of this reaction, Obama discerned some kind of weakness in Fozzie's character.
Obama was planning to cut Fozzie from some kind of special program Fozzie (and possibly I and the other people in the room?) was involved with. Obama said something like, "If Fozzie feels bad about this project, then let him get out of it. Get him out of the project and let him go all the way back home."
I didn't think that was what Fozzie wanted, so I decided to stand up for him. I was going to make some point on behalf of Fozzie. I stood off of the couch and walked over to some conveyor belt system along the wall just past the side of the couch where my head had been. It was now daytime, and plenty of natural light was coming in through the high window.
I had to walk up a couple of steps to get to a platform where the conveyor belt ended. From this ending the conveyor belt went up toward the back wall. The conveyor belt may have been in two sections: a kind of flat section and a really steep section. There was an opening in the right wall about two meters away from me. Apparently, stuff got shoved out from that hole and then moved down or up the conveyor belt.
Somehow, instead of talking about Fozzie Bear, Obama (wherever he was) and I got to talking about the photographer Nan Goldin. There was going to be some kind of special exhibition of photography or some other kind of art. My works of art (???) were going to be included in this exhibition. I thought that the people who ran the exhibition should definitely give some kind of credit and thanks to Nan Goldin for the influence her works had on the art world.
As I was having this conversation, I had walked down from and back up to the conveyor belt platform a couple of times. The conveyor belt was now moving tiny crumbs of bread along toward me. I knew I had to catch the bread and do something with it. But I wasn't sure what.
Obama or somebody else now told me that Nan Goldin was actually going to have a new show soon. I was really excited to hear that. I had an idea of where it would be. It seemed like it was going to be in some big museum. But it also felt like it was going to be in a gallery.
I could see some of the photos in my mind's eye. I was disappointed by them. They were all blurry photos, apparently of items in grocery stores. The backgrounds were pink and blue, like colorfully painted walls in houses. In the foreground were vegetables or fruits, like clumps of bananas or asparagus. The blurriness of the photos made the clumps look really formless.
The photos were really boring. I was really disappointed by them. I kept hoping that there would be some other photos, photos of people, which I thought Goldin was so good at.
I was standing before a round dining table for maybe eight or ten people. The table was in a big, empty space like a restaurant that wasn't quite open for the day. The restaurant was bright and airy, like a big window-wall somewhere in the distance was letting in a lot of natural light.
Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North was sitting at the table. He was wearing nice, business casual style clothes: khaki slacks and a soft-fabric button-up shirt with a pink-and-blue plaid pattern. North had his chair pushed back from the table. I stood almost at North's right knee, pretty much in between North and the edge of the table.
North was talking to me about the upcoming Presidential election. He was speaking to me very gently and in a friendly manner. But he was trying very hard to persuade me to vote for Mitt Romney. Everything he said had an undertone of threat to it -- not like North would hurt me or mess up my life if I didn't vote for Romney, but like he'd stop having me for a friend, or he'd stop supporting me morally, if I didn't vote for Romney.
I didn't feel like being forced to vote or forced to talk about who I was going to vote for. I told North so, even though I was afraid that telling him so would make him angry with me. North didn't seem to mind very much. He leaned forward, kind of hunched over the table, and began pushing some stuff around on the table, maybe little cubed crumbs of bread.
I was in a laundry room. I had some clothes in the washer. The washer seemed to be high up, like it was on a tall set of shelves. The washer was a front-loading washer. In order to get to the door of the washer, I had to stand up on a chair or a stack of baskets or something.
Something was wrong with my laundry. It seemed like the clothes weren't washing. I climbed up to the laundry machine and looked in. It may have seemed like there was no water going into the machine. Somehow, though, I managed to make it so that water was going into the machine. The clothes got wet and then started spinning around.
But now my laundry was coming out of the top of the machine! I couldn't figure out what was making this happen. I climbed higher up, possibly even climbing onto the same shelf that the laundry machine was sitting on, and looked at the top of the laundry machine.
There was some kind of hole, like a hole for pouring in laundry detergent, on the top of the machine. But the hole was really big: maybe 30 cm long and 15 cm wide. Big items of laundry, like towels and even sheets, would fly out of the hole. I had to stuff them back in. But other things would fly out. I'm not sure how, but eventually I may have stopped everything from flying out.
It was a bright, sunny day. I was out on a sidewalk beside a wide, busy city street. Just off to my left was a sheltered bus stop. I was heading toward the street corner, then across the street, to one of a row of brownstone buildings where my psychiatrist's office was. I may have just gotten a new psychiatrist. This may have been the session where we were going to meet each other.
But I was now on the phone. I could see my psychiatrist, a young, pretty, blonde woman, sitting at the bus stop. I could also hear her on my phone. But she wasn't talking to me. She was talking to my old psychiatrist. They were having some discussion about some logistical issue.
The new psychiatrist thought I'd be late somewhere or that I'd have trouble paying a bill or something. None of this was true, but the new psychiatrist acted as if it were true. She told my old psychiatrist that that would be no problem. It would cause a delay in our meeting today, because my psychiatrist would have to go take care of some business before she met with me. I watched my psychiatrist stand up and walk across the street, as if she were going to take care of whatever the business was.
I couldn't believe she'd walked away. There was no business to take care of, since nothing was really wrong with the logistics of our meeting. But now, it seemed, I'd be delayed in meeting with my psychiatrist. I couldn't really believe this. I continued walking to the building. I was probably telling myself that really, after all, the psychiatrist would be in the building, ready for our first session. I hadn't really seen her walking away.
I was walking through some neighborhood near my house, though it was a really nice neighborhood. The neighborhood felt enclosed somehow, like a sound stage for a movie. I walked past one house with a brick-and-iron fence around it. The house seemed to have window walls all along its front, so I could easily see into it. It looked like a normal suburban house, but something about it seemed really nice.
I was in really bad condition financially and emotionally, and contrasting this nice neighborhood and house with my own emotions caused me to get really upset. My knees buckled and I fell to the ground.
I now saw a sign on the brick wall of the fence. It said "JOY HOUSE." I knew the "Joy" meant the "Joy" in the name of DK the department head for a company I used to work for. I didn't know my boss lived so close to me! I ran my finger along the letters of the sign. The letters were fashioned out of something like thin metal wire, like the metal of a clothes hanger.
I wondered if I might be able to visit DK. I knew she wasn't awake yet: the inactivity of the house suggested that everybody in DK's family was still asleep. I also wondered whether it would be inappropriate for me to try to meet with DK, anyway. After all, DK had a husband and family. Nobody else in the family knew me. Maybe nobody else in the family would accept me as a friend, like DK did.
But I now found myself inside the kitchen of the house. The kitchen seemed to be a little messy. There may have been a plastic (or metal?) table-top for a baby's high-chair on the kitchen counter.
Somewhere, on the counter or the table-top, there were crumbs, possibly bread crumbs. I decided I needed to clean up the messy kitchen. I may have decided to start with these crumbs. But, instead of cleaning the crumbs, I may have decided to start eating them.