Which Is Where We Are Now

Go to a strip mall to buy a game for Brian.

I arrive at the parking lot and turn off engine; but, I haven’t parked; I continue rolling. I miss a nearby parking space and have to circumnavigate and arrive somewhat close to the shop without having to restart car; still, its further away than where I could have parked the first pass. A couple of foreign men sitting in their car see me pass by; they sneer at me in disapproval.

This turns into a mini-story of the young cameraman doing filming in the shop. I think the filming is of an interview with a respected, wise, semi-famous man. The cameraman is going to school part time. Though he is a low camera man, he shifts into his later, respected, wise, famous self and is seen interviewed in the shop. When he leaves he is the young self just beginning his real career which he likes.

I leave the store and the parking lot. I miss a turn and continue straight. The street going down. I go down. There are no more intersections.

I’m driving down … far down down down. It’s unbelievable how far down and step this road is; it just keeping going.

At first I cruise until I go dangerously fast, then I begin to brake.

My eyes track the road road where it the levels off and starts to go up, but I find it hard to go straight like this. It’s safer and better for my eyes to track just what’s in front of me.

Finally the road levels off an goes up and up and up. I miss another turn off. Then I see the road beyond doing screwy loops. “Surely,” I think, “that would be disastrous. I wouldn’t be able to have enough speed to stay on though those loops.” I do a quick turn in the middle of the road and am finally on my way home.

A small country ships the bulk of their export in one day to the US.

I’m stuck in prison. My country uses all their coniving to launch military resistance to get me out, sacrificing a whole years worth of export plus relations to the US for me.

I’m in high school. I’m much older than this. Why am I here?

I have a megaphone. The high school seems to be in the street. School is over. I speak into the megaphone because I can; still, I don’t have much to say; I say “time to go home; school is over.”

None of the students pay attention — I didn’t expect them to.

My therapist tells me of a specialist she’d like me to meet. He’s a tall, thin, serious man. I bike there. I go down the street without knowing the street number, then look at the street numbers, realize I passed the place, and double back.

It’s a typical 3-story professional building with a hint on psych institutional care. It’s evening now. I look at the paper for the hours he’s available: 3 A.M. to 10 A.M. Hmm, I’ll have to come back during those hours. The walk-in bit is a surprise to me.