Good morning, everybody.
It was night. I had just left my mother, brother, and sister. I was probably walking along a wooded path or road, but I soon began flying.
I may have been a little surprised and excited that I could fly. After a little while I may have lost my ability to fly. But I got it back and started flying again.
I was still in the woods at night, but I was now flying over some kind of construction scene. There were deep trenches or pits supported by wooden beams and filled with busy workers in orange vests and hardhats. There may have been pylons somewhere, which may have looked like construction cones mixed with Greek columns.
I think some of the workers may have noticed me, but they might not have thought much of me, or they might have been in a kind of thoughtless state altogether. But I really didn't want to get the men's attention: I felt like it could only be bad attention, because they would be jealous of or frightened by my flight. So I flew away, off to my right, probably over a stretch of barren tree tops.
It was a blue night or morning. I sat out on something like a ledge of scaffolding, out on the side of a tall but plain building like a cinder block apartment building. The building was probably in the middle of a wilderness, with the land around it cleared out. Some people below were working, maybe on the building.
I was a skinny, bald, white man, maybe old, and not wearing a shirt. My skin was a little rough and reddish-tan. My chest was misted over with curls of white (or grey-blonde?) hair.
Some young man poked his head out of a window I sat near. He asked me something. I knew my answer would have something to do with something I'd written in a notebook, maybe a notebook I was still writing in. But I couldn't answer the question while sitting out on the ledge: it was like to find the answer I'd have to twist my body around, putting myself at risk of falling right off the ledge.
I decided to pull myself back inside. I somehow pulled myself backward, in through a window, until I was lying on my back on a long, hefty, wooden table. I had the notebook with me. I pulled it out so I could read the answer to the young man.
But I was now in a car, probably with my family. I probably sat in the backseat. The car was a small, red car, like a European mini-car. We were still in the building, driving away from the window. We drove up a corridor ramp, like a corridor in an airport, except that it was dim, like it was in a stage of construction where no lights had yet been put in the ceiling.
I was reading from the notebook. The passage I read was apparently about some kind of mystical experience I'd had when I had been looking out over some kind of landscape. But it was written in a really scraggly cursive.
The last line was supposed the most important line of the passage. But there were sections of writing that were so poorly written that I couldn't read them at all. At first I thought the line was an ominous, almost horrific, statement about the author's and my (as if I were no longer the author) fates.
I had to take some time deciphering the writing. I even seemed to be scratching out or scratching over some of the writing. I finally had the statement figured out: "I'll never forget the sight as long as I live." So, I reflected, the statement was, actually, just a statment of beauty.
I was in the living room of a house like the house my family lived from the time I was eleven until about the time I was fifteen. But the living room was cluttered with all kinds of things. There was a knee-high gate around all the clutter, almost like the entrance to an amusement park for little kids.
A couple of my little nephews and my niece were messing around in all this clutter. At some point I'd been required to find something, which may have served as a medicine. Somehow my niece knew what I was looking for. She said she knew that the item was in the clutter. She even knew just where it was.
Somehow my niece, in going after the item, had managed instantly to clear away a path in the clutter, as well as clearing away a whole pile of clutter that had covered a clear, plastic bin in which the item apparently was packed. The clear, plastic bin was packed with objects, maybe like china ware, wrapped up in clear plastic wrap, like Saran wrap.
I probably doubted that my niece would actually find what I needed to locate. But I let her continue to look -- partly out of kindness and partly, probably, because I was really amazed by the facility with which she'd cleared away all the clutter.
I had been looking through a series of family photos, probably of a vacation, and probably to reminisce, helping myself come to terms with the memory of my grandmother, who had recently died.
I flipped through the photos, none of which I can now remember, until I came to the final photo, which almost faded into my vision or dawned on my vision the same way an idea might dawn upon one's consciousness.
The photo was a low-angle shot of my brother, my sister, and me, as children, all dressed up, in a marching, and maybe saluting, pose, with a Chinese flag up behind us in the distance, fluttering in the blue sky. The photo was kind of blurry. I somehow knew the title of the photo was "Goodbye, Grandma."
A Rose Is Rose comic strip. A little boy was playing in the playground with his mother on a sunny day. But the colors were all dim and drab. The boy remarked that all day long, the boy had been out here, but he'd never seen the sun.
In the last frame, the mother walked away, leaving the boy at the swingset. The boy stood facing the departing mother. Behind the boy a wave of fire-like orange like loomed forward, implying something like a sunrise, like the colors of the sunny day would finally burst forth.