Dreams

Peter thinks I should write down my dreams -- not because they make sense in any plot sort of way, but because they don't seem to make any sense at all. Last night we were living homeless -- in a cheerful Bohemian sort of way. We slept in a couple of different places: a community center with a couple of hundred other people bedding down on the floor (they all seemed to be there by choice having given up the materialism of ownership); a big bed on somebody's veranda with a couple of other people, where we could wake up to watch the sun rise over the ocean; a dingy hotel where Dad was staying for some reason; and a very posh hotel where Mom was staying for some reason. I have the feeling that Mom was on the lam, and had some sort of contraband hidden in her backpack under the knitting. At the posh hotel, we went to a concert of experimental music where a lady played a drum accompaniment to the sound of various types of bread and fruits being fed into a wood chipper. At the intermission, everybody went up and ate beautiful hors d'oeuvres made of the chopped food.