I found myself at KK’s house, which I noticed was my aunt’s old house as I imagined it—sprawling, infinite. I excused myself to explore it and take photos, but as happens in the dreams in which this imaginary house of magic appears, I didn’t see any of it.
I was around McCormick Place south of downtown Chicago and had to decide whether to take a bus or ride my bike, which I may have just found. Then I found a motorcycle that also had to go back. I couldn’t ride one and take the other, nor could I take the motorcycle on a bus or in a cab. I discovered the bicycle’s tires were low on air, so I couldn’t ride it after all. I managed to leave both unsecured while I debated with myself what to do at a coffee shop that looked more like a slightly below-ground train platform.
I found myself on the phone with the Flamingo’s manager. She told me a fire had started in my kitchen sink—but in my head I saw the old-style porcelain sink in my old studio apartment. I thought it couldn’t have been too bad, but asked her. “Pretty bad,” she said. I asked her to check on my cat. “No.” “Please?” “No.” And so on. She refused repeatedly to go to the apartment. When I woke up I thought she had to have been in it at some point to know it was “pretty bad.” I couldn’t figure out why she was being unreasonable and feared the worst for my cat and for my personal history.