dreams: November 26, 1999
Jen Callahan and I are lying down on a bed in the middle of her dorm room with other friends. She is eating lots of little bits of some kind of food; the pieces are getting all over me, covering my chest. I don't like it because they're getting my white shirt dirty. I'm getting annoyed. There is some tense energy between the two of us.
Jen & her hair dye
Jen has bought lots of fun beauty items. She has three boxes of hair coloring. I ask if I can use them. She says sure. So I take them, since I want to go try them on my own hair. One is a sleek black color, another is a light autumny red, and the other is a darker auburn red, like henna. I'm deciding which one to use.
I'm looking through an old Swat yearbook from the 1970s. It has a blue and green cover. It's from the year that Mom (and John?) were here at this college. I'm fascinated to go back and look through history.
Mom is a Swattie, I turn down sugar
I'm in a little food place on campus. I paid the right amount of money to now have whatever I want. I'm looking through several racks of goodies in a refrigerator case. There are many yummy-looking desserts. I see a big chocolate-filled croissant and many cookies, as well as a paper cup full of chocolate-covered espresso beans. I choose a chocolate chip cookie. I'm going to get more, but then I stop and realize that I don't really want to do that to myself. When I think about it, I don't have a true interest in putting the food in my body to then deal with the future consequences. I wouldn't do that to someone else, so why me? So I don't take anything else.
I'm talking to several people about some payment issues. We are in the co-op (but it's part of Swat). There are bulk bins full of various combinations of dried fruit. I casually grab a handful of fruit as we talk. I am eating a big piece of dried peach. The people I'm with are nibbling on stuff too. Then I look at the rest of my handful and see that Im actually not interested in eating the rest, since it's all dark fruits (prunes, etc.) that don't appeal to me. I want to put it back in the bin. But I'm struck with a question of morality. Which is worse: to waste the fruit I stole (by throwing it away), or to put it back where other people will eventually eat it without knowing that I was carrying it around with my bare hands?
prunes: a moral question
I'm standing at the window of my dorm room in Parrish. I look out and see Parrish Beach (the side between McGill Walk and McCabe). I've gone back in time, and I am now watching Swat in its earlier days. I see a huge black man walking across the lawn; he totally stands out amongst the others because he is so enormously tall. He's wearing a nice old-fashioned suit. I realize that he is Mestre Irineu.
Mestre Irineu is a Swattie, Lisa buys wine for Michael Jackson, and I paint my nails
Then someone is telling me a story about how my aunt Lisa makes lots of money traveling to other countries to buy valuable items for famous people. For example, right now she's getting hired to go to some obscure place in Europe (in Italy?) to get an old, unusual, high-quality bottle of dark red wine. Michael Jackson is paying her to do it for him. At that moment he walks into my dorm room. He says he needs to get ahold of Lisa.
Then I'm alone again, still standing next to my window. I have a bottle of light purple fingernail polish with glittery sparkles in it. I decide to paint my nails. I haven't done it in years, and it now seems so unlike my expected style. I paint my thumbnail first and like the color, though I see it will need several coats. As I paint my other nails, I see that they're very long. I want to cut them after I paint them, so I'm not too careful about covering the top parts with polish. It looks sheerer than I was hoping. Prachi Patankar is somehow involved now.
in a drug operation with Todd Hedrick
Then I'm sitting out in the hallway with two friends, right next to the door to my dorm room. We are coating pieces of plant with a clear syrupy gel by rolling them in a pile of dark stockings/nylons that are saturated with the goop. It's a special process. We are getting lots of pieces ready -- many are dark-green buds attached to long sturdy stems. It has something to do with Star Wars. It's a drug production line. The stuff is ganja. We're almost done.
A familiar Swattie walks by and stops when he sees what we're doing. It's Ben Tiven, and he's dressed up all fancy, as if he's on his way to a formal dance. He's curious what we are doing. Todd Hedrick is my friend who is the main guy in charge of the whole operation. He says we should now all try out to see if it's ready. We each get a trial piece. Todd goes into my room, pulling out the bucket of done pieces. Todd's nose looks rather red; he's wearing a bandana around his head. He picks out pieces for the three of us. He chooses a red rose for our female friend sitting on my right in the doorway. I protest, saying I wanted that piece. All the green buds in the bucket are now laminated with the clear shiny substance. Todd picks out a white rectangular paper card for me, holding it up for us to read. It has a whole phrase on it; my eye catches the word "Ya-ya" on it, which makes me excited. "Yeah, I want this one! Ya-ya. Get it? It's perfect for me," I say. But then I look closer and see that the word is actually "naked," which isn't really as appropriate.
- FIN -
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