I’m a traveler in my dreams and many people.

In one, the one that is the thinnest and the hardest to remember, I’m in a barn. And I’m Spiderman and I’m being invisible. Nobody can see me. I’m a fly, or rather a spider on the wall and I’m a spy or a hero nobody sees. And I am exhilarated by my stealth. But can I be seen? Perhaps I am seen. Now it’s not a barn. It’s an amphitheater by a lake and I’m up on the wall and the people, the crowd, are actors or players. The lake shines and shimmers. Science can be thwarted in dreams. The light came from the lake. The lake didn’t reflect light. Perhaps I am seen after all. There’s a chase. And some kind of melee where I am not afraid. And there are a trio of Spidermen and it is unimportant who is the chaser and the chased and who is authentic.

I’m in a two dimension world, someone else’s video game. There are levels. And though I am the player, it’s altogether unclear what the rules are. In each new level, I sink to the bottom. Perhaps I am in water but there is no fear. I don’t feel trapped. I don’t feel confused. I feel floaty and I can breathe still. And while I might be some character in a video game, I am still in control even though I don’t know the rules. I enter secret caverns and sink to secret depths I didn’t know were there and earn secret points. I get to enter a room. I get to pull a lever. Will I win something?

I’m traveling my empty city. It’s the city of my dreams. I’m late for something. I’ve got to get somewhere. I don’t know where that somewhere is. I travel back roads. And secret alleys. The city is a secret. These back roads are perfectly empty. While I am overcome with the feeling I must get somewhere I only have a vague idea where that is and what’s more that I am far from it and lost. But I am not panicked so much as stuck. I get caught up between fences and tall empty houses. There is a large, a giant pile of snow in my way. But it is sunny and hot. Still, in front of me is a giant cottony mountain of snow that I try to climb but I can’t. I try to climb over fences and the tall houses. Perhaps I make my way to someplace new.

I’m in a park. No, a walking course. There are dozens of tiny paths. It looks, as much as it looks like anything, a course for a dog show. Murphy is with me. I sneak about and hide behind trees. I am not sure I am welcome. This course is populated. A smattering of people. Dogs. Or perhaps sheep. I try to cut through the course and get dirty looks. I get on a path that meanders about and mixes up. Perhaps from the sky the paths are giant letters written in loopy scripts. I think I make it through to the other side. I’m still not sure I’m welcome. It feels like a warm summer dawn. The grass is as green as Astroturf. I befriend a girl who likes Murphy. I need to go back in. In the center of the course is a counter with people behind it. Some type of commerce. The girl and I, with Murph in tow, return to the counter. There is a man at the counter. Both of his perfectly normal hands are plugged into the end of his arms at the wrist. I point them out to him and feel stupid about it. I’m sure he’s tired of people asking about his hands. I don’t remember that he explained how it happened. I just remember feeling embarrassed that I had asked. I leave with Murphy.

I’m outside a shop. It’s only a shelter to begin with. But I go in. Once in, I feel rather trapped inside, as if I hadn’t meant to enter so much as take a look and now that I’m inside it’s impossible to manage to get outside. It’s a library, I suppose, more than anything else. I’m worried about Murphy. She probably shouldn’t be in here. And neither should I. An important person comes in. He asks people – there is a crowd now – to guess his name. It’s like a game. If you can guess his name something magical will happen. He looks just like John Malkovitch so, even though I was hiding, I say, “John Malkovitch.” He scoffs at me. That is not my name anymore. And he looks at me as if I had made some horrible mistake. He begins to read from a book. But, perhaps only because I felt like I shouldn’t be there, people want me to leave and push me and my dog out of the building.

I’m on a hill of red, golden sand. With Murphy. It’s a warm hill. It smells of cinnamon toast. I’m not quite surrounded by green sparkling water. I get a sudden feeling and run with Murphy. The run is quick enough. It takes about as long as a short song. And Murph loves to run. And once we stop we turn around and look back. The space between the golden hill we had just left and the ground we are standing on now has been filled with water. An instant and deadly tide, though it’s pretty to look at. As if looking through the corner of an aquarium I catch kaleidoscopic fragments of what’s in the water: a black – no, black only like a duck that shimmers purples and greens – tail. Is it a whale? No, it’s a dozen or so sting rays. But Murphy and I, on the shore, are safe as can be.

I’m on a boat. I’m with a man who feels so familiar but I don’t know who he is. I break some device alongside the boat. The device had some fluid inside and worked, as far as I could tell, like a builder’s level. I don’t know what that means on a boat. It had a long antennae bit that broke off. I stubbornly don’t apologize. I figured that it must have been nearly broken anyway. I spend a lot of time not apologizing. The man I am with, he must be the owner of the boat, he has to do something new, because of the broken device, I presume. He is warm but also scruffy. Like gentle authority or like a tanned chin with stubble. He fetches a pail, pails, of what amounts to food. I have to help him create his recipe. It’s meant to, it’s meant, well, not to kill fish but to calm them. They must be bad giant fish that we should have to calm them. I don’t know what to do but I follow his instructions. Which part is the poison? I ask. It’s not so much that I use those words. But I ask the question just the same. He indicates the part that I am currently holding. It has the consistency and color of freshly chopped onions. Would it kill me, I ask, holding up a piece. No. It’s more like a sedative but it’s also a hallucinogenic. It’s not that he says these words. But I understand the answer as if the answer were packed away in the spaces between the air. I am not afraid of the bad fish. I am not afraid of the man. I am not worried about being lost. I am covered, infused with a warm fluid calm. I suppose I don’t need the magic vegetable. Can the dream dream?

SS