Archive for the ‘SORRY TO TELL YOU A DREAM’ Category

Once More Into the Breach, Dear Friends

September 11, 2012

Sleepy at Musee Rodin.

For KC: I forgot that last night, I was at the house of either Margaret Atwood or Maya Angelou (though my version was a wispy thing) and she made me stand up and read a poem, five pages long, in front of our poetry class, which was seated outside at a picnic table.  The wind was blowing something fierce, as southerners in books would say, and the pages kept flying out of my hands, and I would have to snatch them up and rearrange them.  Bizarrely some pages included were just visual aids, and though I thought I would knock it out the park, I stumbled all over the words, the only one of which I pronounced with any confidence being tznius.


July 24, 2012


I was walking through SoHo early this morning, still kind of fuzzy from sleep, and I looked into the window of the Louis Vuitton store and YAYOI KUSAMA WAS FUCKING STANDING THERE STARING AT ME!

Of course then I realized it was a statue, but still, for a second, I thought I had met my demise, and it was in the shape of a short, plump little Japanese wacko.

Tonight I will not sleep well.

Last Night In My Dream

June 27, 2012

… I simply didn’t show up to work one day and then was trying to brainstorm a nervous breakdown –– not really fake, per se, but cultivate.

Also, this $745 pom pom hat played a big role, which was… weird.

by Lanvin. Please note this post is not categorized as “buy me this.”

Good Thing I Don’t Worry About Burning Bridges

January 18, 2012

I had a dream the other night that the below stunner, Jane Friedman, who is well known in the publishing world, was trying to eat me.

And I woke up screaming and covered in sweat.


December 20, 2011

I actually meant I forgot to post my snippets of dreams “poem” in the first place!

Snippets of weekend dreams: packing up fur coats, Vaclav Havel, a waifish former friend, a drive to Michigan, a new job at The New Yorker, a meditation on dreams versus fantasies (this is after watching Inception.)  Also Paris with waterslides, and… see below.

Not too shabby, subconscious.


December 20, 2011

1. I forgot in my dream snippets “poem” to include:

Back in Paris,  which had WATERSLIDES!

My own studio there –– teeny tiny, containing one big bed and seven fluffy armchairs

Sneaking into a gorgeous apartment and finding a lamp made from butterfly wings

2. Reaction to Last Week’s (?  I don’t even know what my name is anymore) Article in the Times about Facebook:


kind of a weird article, like the angle it takes

me: i don’t feel like i miss shit

from not being on facebook

MT: yeah neither do i

doesn’t mention the kind of stigma experience ive had

me: oh like

too cool for facebook?

MT: at a bar, was very well hitting it off with this girl who was a friend of a friend

when she was heading out

i was like, can i have your number

she said she would just look me up on facebook

i said i didnt have facebook, and she gave me a look like i had a rap sheet or something

me: what!?

that’s crazy!

MT: like i must be somehow untrustworthy that she can’t look to see if im not crazy

i feel like its become this weird semi social litmus test for people, being able to survey facebook before gearing up actual interpersonal relationships

its like “nope, i want to find out everything about you before i actually have a conversation”

me: yeah

it’s socially sanitizing in a way

i’m pissed someone wrote this article before me

MT: haha

i think you may take a little different route though

and its been written before

maybe not in a major publication though

me: totes

i’ll think of my own spin maybe


MT: yeah

well, you’d also have to include the fact that you wanted to get rid of your cell phone and replace it with a landline that can’t dial out

me:  yes

i would certainly include that

that is good info

MT: yep




*As always, Gchat conversations are edited for clarity and content, aka to make me — and occasionally the other chatter — look better/smarter than is the case.

Good night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest

December 14, 2011

George and little Sylvia!

Listen, I’m pretty cynical, I swear.  I don’t read self-help, try not to use the word “vibes,” and never take intellectually serious anyone who asks me what my sign is.  So I’ll get it if you don’t believe me on this, but hear me out…

Last night I had a dream I was back at Shakespeare & Co., the storied bookstore (pun intended) where I stayed in Paris a month ago.  There were a number of us “tumbleweeds,” all pale girls with long hair wearing ethereal, long white dresses.  It was very sunny outside.  The staff told us all to come upstairs because they wanted to talk to us.  My first thought was, “Oh no, we’re in trouble because we forgot to lock the door or weren’t on time for our shifts or something or other.”  When we got upstairs, we paired off and held hands, for some reason, and then they told us that George Whitman had died.  I remember a wail, and me bending at the waist and beginning to sob.

And then this afternoon, my dad send me this:

Founder of Paris Bookstore Shakespeare & Co. Dies


Paris (AP) — George Whitman, the American bibliophile whose iconic English-language Paris bookshop, Shakespeare and Company, has been a haven for book lovers for more than half a century, died Wednesday, the store announced on its website. He was 98 years old.

Whitman “died peacefully at home in the apartment above his bookshop,” two months after having suffered a stroke, a posting on the store’s site said. Whitman “showed incredible strength and determination up to the end” and read every day with his daughter, Sylvia, his friends and his cat and dog, it said.

“Nicknamed the Don Quixote of the Latin Quarter, George will be remembered for his free spirit, his eccentricity and his generosity – all three summarized in the Yeats verses written on the walls of his open, much-visited library: ‘Be not inhospitable to strangers / Lest they be angels in disguise’,” it said.

Nestled on the left bank of the Seine River, Shakespeare & Company is a veritable warren of books, stacked with volumes from floor to ceiling. Since its founding in 1951, the shop has been a beacon for writers and would-be writers, whom Whitman allowed to crash in the store in exchange for help around the shop. Boarders, browsers and Whitman’s beloved pets could be seen snoozing among the stacks. Any visitor is welcome to curlup to read in the comfy chairs that dot the store.

In an interview this year with The Associated Press, Whitman’s daughter and the store’s manager, Sylvia Whitman, said “My father says it’s a Socialist utopia masquerading as a bookstore.”

Whitman was born on December 12, 1913, in East Orange, New Jersey. His twin loves of the written word and foreign travel were nurtured early on, when his father, a physics professor who authored several books on science, took the family along for a yearlong sabbatical at a university in China in 1925.

After a host of adventures abroad in his early 20s, Whitman enlisted in the U.S. Army. During World War II, he was trained as a Medical Warrant Officer and treated the wounded at hospitals across Europe, the posting said.

Whitman moved to Paris permanently under the GI Bill in 1948. Three years later, he founded his bookshop in a rickety old building directly across the Seine River from Notre Dame cathedral. Initially baptized “Le Mistral” after the blustering winds that blow in off the Mediterranean, the shop’s name was later changed.

Regarded as an institution of Paris’ cultural scene, Whitman was made an officer of arts and letters by the French Culture Ministry in 2006. Whitman is to be buried in Paris’ venerable Pere Lachaise cemetery, where the remains of giants of literature including Oscar Wilde, Balzac and French poet Guillaume Apollinaire rest, the posting said. The date of the funeral has not yet been set.

Whitman is survived by his daughter, who will continue to run the bookstore.


October 6, 2011

So in my dream last night, I was at a singing audition of sorts with a bunch of members of my family as well as some of the cast of Glee (which I don’t even watch) and a panel of judges and I kept debating (aloud and to myself) whether or not I should audition, and finally I agreed to do it, and I got up and sang “On My Own” from Les Miz (embarrassingly) and KILLED IT!  I felt it was somehow the closure on all the unfinished business I had with memories of childhood auditions.  So why don’t I feel more peaceful today?

My Boss’ Dream

September 23, 2011

My boss dictates, as I once mentioned, and the other night he dictated a dream of his to a night assistant (all of this is a long story). Here it is:

I had a dream Saturday night of my whole world crashing down on me.

I was in bed with JT, heard a noise, got out of bed, heard a stranger in the house, went downstairs, and found 18 people living there.

I called the police and had them arrested since none knew who they were or how they’d gotten there.

That day, all day, I worried about a party that was coming up with everyone I knew coming.

TG was away, but he had a room there in the house.

After the trespassers had been arrested and left I went up the stairs again but they broke and I hurt myself.

My ex-wife had a small back room in the house, which had a terrace going out from it. In the morning I looked at the wreckage down below done by the trespassers, the place was wrecked and parts of the roof were gone, somehow.

I made a decision to rebuild, including rebuilding many secret areas.
The next day the party took place, it was a sunny Sunday, people showed up and tried to disregard the total mess in my life of which the ruins of the downstairs were a metaphor. However my ex-wife’s section was perfect and increasingly, because the area was so nice, people like my daughter drifted to the my ex-wife’s section of the house. She was there with a boyfriend, sometimes leaving the house and driving around in a little car, laughing.

I remember the downstairs very well, the trespassers had thrown all the paintings off the wall and books were in disarray all over the floor. Where I slept, upstairs—somehow JT wasn’t there—over the bed there was no roof. I decided I would have to fix it.

The furniture was in shambles. And was much to heavy for me to move to one side. I said to myself, “I’m 75 and I will hurt myself moving the furniture.”

JT had quite a few ideas but I told her I’m not interested in them. I said to myself it will take every penny I have to rebuild this house, but I said to myself I would do it.

JT advised me to just walk away, I said I cant I must rebuild, I cant be defeated, even though I knew JT was right. Suddenly my mother appeared and agreed everything JT advised me to do. Suddenly my father appeared and happily he agreed with everything I thought should be done.

The location of the house in this dream was near a country-western nightclub. I’m not quite sure why I went there Sunday night, but I did and Johnny Cash, after doing a couple of sets, came over to me and said he would like me to sing with him.

When I went back to my seat I said I must hire an architect, I said to myself, in September how can this be rebuilt by December. I knew it was impossible.

I decided in the rebuilding I would put in an elevator, but I know I would have to buy the building in order to put one in.

I worried about how to combine my work with day job with the time I would need to supervise the rebuilding.


What? You think it’s sort of unethical that I shared my boss’s dream with everyone? I’m willing to share my own. Last night, his housekeeper, an adorable and loving Ukranian woman, admitted herself to a mental institution for the third time in six months.

“She’s addicted!” my coworker said.

“To what?” I asked.

“To rehab!”

My boss was distraught that she had disappeared without a warning, so in a panic, he wailed to me that we must find her. I listened to his answering machine and there was a message on it from her. There was a lot of static but I made out that she was somewhere upstate in a town called Foxgloves. I knew of the place, and knew, for some reason (here’s where you raise an eyebrow) that the acute unit, where all new admits where housed, required patients to go pants-less. I found the institution’s number, called up and asked for R—–. To my surprise, they put her on the phone quickly. She sounded chipper. I put my boss on the phone and he was so thrilled to hear her voice he welled up with tears. Later on, he wrote her a thank you note, all the while wearing a blissed out smile on his face. My coworker said, “Great. Remember last time when she went away and came back? She was so stern. ‘You are not allowed to bother him in de morning.'”

Now who’s nuts?


January 7, 2011

My friend MH had a Holocaust dream in which I had a cameo.  She makes sure all her gchats are off the record, so I forced her to retell me the story so I could capture her voice. 

 MH:  ah ok
So basically
first I was packing up a lot of stuff
and trying to throw away stuff
and there was a major sense of anxiety and limit on time
then, it was like omg the nazi are coming
gun shots, trucks etc

and then we were trying to hide in a closet
but i couldn’t fit in the spot
so then u were like – oh i can fit in here
and then u took my hiding spot
then i woke up!

Yo, Dream Me is a BITCH!