I am off sick today, so I slept. And dreamt. As so often, it was about where I live. Not about where I actually live, but about where I live in the dream. It is rarely if ever a dream home, perfect, spacious, clean, etc.; it is usually unusual or impossible.
It is a courtyard building, like this one, but I live on the top floor. The world of the dream is restricted to this place. There is nowhere else. I am hesitant to walk near the windows for fear of being seen, or maybe it’s fear of falling out. There is activity in the courtyard, and it seems as though someone suddenly cares about the building. They are paying attention to it, and perhaps there will even be improvements. It seems suddenly this is the way it always was, but it wasn’t. There are going to be concerts in the courtyard. There will be a big celebrity. It is exciting. How I know this is not clear.
I see ropes and poles and wonder what is going over my window. Banners are hoisted over it, and I wonder if they will cover the windows. They disappear upward and don’t. I walk out on what I must think of as a porch even though it is merely a smooth, steely incline, and look up. The banners are maroon, but I can’t read them. A crowd is gathering below. It’s all happening in compressed time.
While the crowd gathers below and chairs are set up for them, I suddenly realise my beau is here. He wants to cook, but there is no place to do so. He sneaks off and returns with something hot. He has discovered a stove in a porch nook with a working burner. And he brings back another couple with him. The woman is unusual. And then something happens . . .