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  • This is the most recent variation of my dream about a house: This one is composed of two units joined together. It was a typical house from my childhood: made of wood, with one or two rooms, and very sparsely furnished.

    The house I dreamed of is newly painted, yet its paint is yellowing.

    It is newly refurbished, but the plywood floor planks come off as you walk on them, like giant tiles on a giant scrabble board. One of my best friends from college, Sandra T, is there, but she doesn't speak to me, not out of any emotion, but due to a palpable distance brought about by living life.

    The only thing that is not self-contradictory is the door: it is made of brand-new tempered glass in a chrome frame and has a lever on one panel, instead of a knob. Ah, but then that door is a double door. It still has a duality about it: one side for coming in, the other for going out.

    I push the right-panel — the one that visibly has the handle — and I go out. Something in the dream that is decisive enough.


    It is raining outside. I open my large, white umbrella. The translucent brightness against the weeping sky comforts me. A childhood friend, Lanie B., follows me out. She has a white one with red polka dots at the bottom. Hers doesn't open right. But she walks ahead of me, just the same, getting drenched under her half-open umbrella.

    It seems that even as I walk out the proverbial door, a contradiction that may never have an answer follows.
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