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.

I’m in a bookshop. It’s university bookshop. It has an indie vibe. I spend a lot of time at the register reading a book and watching a movie. The clerk checks to make sure I’m doing something. When he realizes I am, its OK with him.

They also have a blue coat just like the one I used to have. This kind fit so nice; I like them; I plan to get one. There is another more expensive coat that doesn’t fit. Good thing I don’t have to feel obligated to wear that these days or have a job that would think better of those coats. I can give it to goodwill now.

I buy my books; one of them is a big book. I walk out of the train station. I’m on a train trip of sorts. It’s evening. I walk over bridges. The station is right next a large body of water or a big river. Up ahead the current of one of the tributaries is rapid. I’m really happy about it and looking forward to crossing the bridge that passes over it. I’m fascinated by the play of the water.

I’m not sure if have my books. I check my backpack, which is light. The book is there. Oh, I forgot the coat. I’ll have to go back. I go back to the train station’s shop (which is different from the university book shop). I meet an Asian woman, a classmate. She has been diagnosed with cancer. We talk.

The upside about the cancer is that she gets to meet interesting people like me. I have to go to the bathroom. I pee in the corner under the shower. It seems like the drain pipe was meant for such use. Oh, there is a urinal. The woman has gone into the woman’s bathroom. She taking a shower. She says “touch me”. Could she be saying that to me?

The clerk steps out from a back room. He turns on the shower to wash his feet and leaves.

I’m taken to high school.

I sit inside the office with 2 young psychologists. It’s some kind of job interview or student-to-teacher get together. They don’t know how old I am. We get into the psychology of life. They’ve written a book: Psychology for Dummies. I point them out. They correct me: they are actually the 2 teenagers looking at the two hipsters that wrote the book and are pictured — a curly haired man and a Frenchman.

I show them my shoes. They fall over themselves when I tell them they are Fluevogs. They don’t know how they’d do it, they say. I say one just has to be brave enough to go online and order them.

At one point I take issue with their theory. I stand up.

We move outside the pool. The principal, a black woman, joins us. She flirts with all of us softly. By the end she tells us she’s hot. I wonder should I go down under the table and service her, but that would be too wonderful and embarrassing. She takes a fire extinguisher and sprays it up her skirt.

A posh lobster bisque dance troupe prepares a meal for a large group of people. The setting is in my parents’ basement.

As we partake in the meal, we discover a person buried in floor, the concrete of the floor. After a while, after some investigation and excavation, we discover a whole floor of people buried.

I was once buried there and escaped. One lady that is discovered was the original lady buried there. She had a brood of children; of course, they had been buried, too.

I’m your typical white suburbanite in poor minority, I suppose Hispanic, Spanish-speaking territory. I’m at a nice lake in an idyll land far from the suburban streets. I bungle around with my possessions before getting into the water.

Then, its time for children to go home. There is a PBS/hippie peace core vibe among the adults minding the children. I can tell they have fun and are fulfilled, engaged with their lives; it must feel like an adventure to them. They are filming for a documentary for funds. The bus begins to cross a very wide river — there is no bridge. The bus has no roof. They were planning on the river only so deep, I suppose a foot deep, but they hit a deep spot and lost a bus to the river.