Dream 20030411, 7:00 AM:
Chris and I are together in a car, in a downtown area that I think is part of Houston. It is mostly small buildings, not the real “downtown” part, and I think that we’re going to the BRB. He stops and I get out, and I think that he’s going to go park the car, but I don’t see him again.
I walk past several buildings, some of them have people coming in and out, others appear empty and kind of unsavory. I wander around for a while, trying to find the club I’m looking for. I look down at my feet, and I’m wearing heavy sandals with little caster wheels in the bottoms; I think to myself that I can’t go into the BRB with them on, they’re not right for me to dance in. So I just keep wandering around the scary neighborhood.
I turn around a corner and walk down a street beside some old buildings. There is a person, can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man, sitting on the sidewalk, back to the side of a building; a heavy-set friendly-looking policeman comes over to the person, and tries to get him/her to stand up. The person seems retarded, and although (s)he leans forward and makes a grunting noise and a sitting-up type gesture, doesn’t manage to sit up. The policeman uses some long word that I don’t remember, but I remember thinking that it was odd in context. The policeman sort of shrugs, and walks on. He walks up to me, and asks me if I’m OK. I try to reply, but I find my mouth entirely full of stuff. I spit some of it out into my hand, and it’s chunks and big pieces of cooked cabbage. It is slimy and gross. I keep spitting it out. The cop thinks that I’m throwing up from being drunk. He tries to get me to talk to him, and after I get the cabbage out of my mouth, scooping the last of it out of my cheeks with my fingers, I tell him that I’m not drunk, I just don’t feel well. I explain that I’m looking for Chris, but I’m lost. He thinks I’m being incoherent because I’m drunk, and keeps talking like he’s going to have to take me in for public intoxication. He seems nice as can be, though, not threatening. I finally manage to convince him that I’m just not feeling well, I’m not drunk, and he goes off on his own business.
I keep walking around. I feel sick to my stomach, and lost and alone. I see a little black cat run out from behind a dumpster and down the alleyway where I’m walking; I say out loud, “Oh, God no, not the little black cats again.” [Some years ago, I had “issues” with some small black cats, all about six-month-kitten sized that I’m not entirely sure were ever really there… they seemed like little demons or ghosts in cat skins, and would appear and disappear with quirky, erratic motions.] *end*