I’m referreeing a woman’s soccer game. I’m blowing my whistle a lot. I wonder if I should be blowing my whistle so much.

Most times it’s unnecessary. The women know what’s what anyway. One time, I signal the direction of the throw-in when the ball goes out; I’ve pointed the wrong way; it doesn’t really matter because the women have the correct team do the throw-in anyway.

One time, I whistle someone for using hands. I’m so glad: finally, I am doing something constructive that only a ref can do. Then I realize I’ve called in on a child who is playing in the dirt in the field. The woman play on, righteously oblivious of my tooting.

I’m in class. We study a case of an employee who has made a ruckus of sorts at a coffee shop… The shop is called Luck O’Cup or something like that. It’s a quaint shop serving the upper-middle class. One of the employees instigated a fight or maybe he demanded better pay. The fight created a loss of revenue; even a bus boy was fired due to the financial loses. I have an unconscious understanding that this person is me, though this is not conscious to my dream self.

Anyway this is what we are studying in class.

Class is over and, for real, a case is called on this guy and I’m selected to be one of his defense lawyers. I’m bitter about this. I’m not a lawyer and I can’t make rhyme or reason about the case. Every defense I can think of seems a fabrication; on the other hand, the fellow seems innocent to me. That is, no laws were broken, he just was involved in an argument — an incident where he became angry and which happened to have some fallout.

The judge, a refined black man, discusses the case. As he does, he is panned by the prosecuting attorneys for being upper class and on the side of the shop. I’m dressed in a burnt brown suit; then, I notice the judge is wearing green. He mentions the store’s name… something clever like Luck O’Coffee… I realize everyone is wearing green, including me.

The prosecution begins to lay out there case. Like I said, I’m very uncomfortable because I can’t make heads or tails of any legal position. Everything seems made up. I think hard for some kind of argument. Then, I check back in my paper I did for class. I believe that the main thought train of the paper could fit into a substantive argument; it’s hard to say; it’s the closest thing I have to a genuine position and I’m going to have to defend a real man for his freedom.

On my game console I press top 20 new games. I realize I’ve just bought them all. I flip through them. I don’t even like video games and none of these interest me. Can I cancel the purchase?

Shipping boxes come out of the console. Oh. Goodie. Part of the purchase is a physical game cartridge in full packaging. I look at the cartridges. They have handwritten passwords marked on them. Ugh. The market is probably flooded with these. I’d be really surprised I could sell them for $20 on Craigslist. I better be able to return these to Microsoft. What a waste.

I’m in a trivia show. I ask for the $4,000 — no,  $4,000,000 question. The question is “Name the county in Maryland where mushrooms are distributed.”

I call the mushroom packaging facility and talk with the lady in charge of mushroom packaging. I ask which county she’s in. She’s an Asian immigrant; she doesn’t completely understand my question. She gives me a name.

I give the name as an answer. It’s wrong. She had told me the city rather than the county. I think “I could have just given a random Maryland county and I would have had a better chance.”

I wake up. It’s morning at the farm near the facility I had called. The first thing I lay my eyes on is the end of a field of giant mushrooms being cultivated. I walk around. It’s a hippie festival, like Woodstock, only no music and less people. There’s a magician-like guy at a table selling occult books. Some young women are interested and have a discussion with him. They join in friendship.

I walk the dogs; we go down a village road. I go into a house; it has a hut vibe despite it being modern quality. The owner of he house is a straggly white South African. He is a tattoo artist. He has a child, a girl; she isn’t present. I sit at his desk. He comes into the room and asks if I’d like a tattoo. I decline. He says he does Muslim tattoos. He talks about the religion as if it’s just a dogma. I forget the adjective he keeps repeating… something like “orthodoxy” but it ends with “archy”. I silently think to myself that I believe in all religions… or, to say another way, there is truth in all religions even in a spirit and deity sense… or, all religions point to the same true spirit. I don’t say anything and he keeps mentioning its dogma nature to my private chagrin.

I’m in attendance at some presentation. It finishes. A person from one line of chairs passes by me. I know them as an acquaintance. I warmly smile at them. I give such a feeling of friendliness, the person and their family shake my hand. With the precedent set, the families behind them shake my hand and say hello. The woman behind me pokes me to get going. Then an emotionally strong, willed man gets his family that I was blocking to move on past me. I give up the shaking hands and move on.

I’m in Japan. In the office, I’m surprised to find I’m being asked to share my ideas on a combustion engine with plugins as a source of energy.

In the middle of the office, a spa is laid out. I feel its proper to take off my pants. I do this, looking for an OK from my oriental hosts and superiors. They indicate it’s OK and proper.

“Is it environmentally friendly?” a business executive in his thirties asks. “No,” I say. He gives a look like that was the most important benefit they were looking for and the merit of my idea would have been secured in that.

I begin to explain. It’s a complicated idea. Talking about it with other people for the first time has me realizing how rough around the edges it is; I get warmed up by the talking about it.

“It’s a plugin energy source system; so, of course it’s environmental… you simply select environmentally responsible energy sources.” At this, they look relieved and no longer want to reject my idea out of hand. There is a typical oriental respect and seriousness that changes the whole atmosphere of the conversation… the engagement.

We drive around the outskirts of the city. It looks like any European city. I look out the window and see a roundabout, a girl on a bike, perhaps a bridge nearby… typical suburban fair. The grass is a lime green. It’s like looking at a children’s book. “Do you like Japan?” I’m surprised at the question because everything looks like a typical city. How do I explain this to them. I say “I like Japanese culture; I incorporate it into my lifestyle as it suits me; however, this city, on the outside, looks like any other.”

I’m in some kind of quaint hipster company that sells posh candy. The employees are self-blessed with a great sense of a friendly work atmosphere. Everyone has there own thing; still, everyone works off one another. There is a woman there introducing new products. There is a cup I want to drink and almost spill and shouldn’t drink; I’m tempted by this and all the while I’m helping myself to a lot of really good and well-crafted chocolate. There are children among the coworkers.

I go for a walk outside. I walk or skip down the path. Coming up the path is a young blond boy. He has two unleashed dogs under his care dashing before him. I pet them as they quickly pass me by. There is a feeling of safety, of things being alright; there is a hint of anticipation. He exuberantly shouts “hallelujah” and another overwhelmingly innocent and religious phrase.