Im in London-not-London staying with an old friend A***, a visit. And I've made my way out and about, somewhere on the King's road, walking down it towards my favorite thrift shop, I'm seldom here and want to check it out...
Across the street there's a brick wall, the side of a parkade, maybe 10 stories high, buckling and rippling and shaking, and I'm thinking there must be some construction, maybe a demolition, and I take out my phone to take a picture, only, just like the last dream, it won't let me, is prompting me with a graphic to buy an app, I need something more...
...Other people have stopped to watch as well, a portion of the middle of the wall falls away and I can see inside it's an operating theatre, there's surgeons in scrubs running everywhere, doctors, patient on tables, it wasn't a parkade after all, and it certainly wasn't planned, and I can't snap a photo, the vivid white lights, blue figures in the operating room juxtaposed against the quivering brick wall...
I'm annoyed but continue on, find my thrift shop, it's afternoon, I know everyone that works there, there's S***** from the ferry, big lady, and she's reading all these notebooks and I can see that their from my friend Batshit, must be a drop-off for me, only she's not giving them up until she's done reading them all she tells me and I'm hoping he didn't write anything unkind about her....
The rest of the staff, I know them as well, a pastiche of familiar thrift shop faces, familiar staff, and we chat, and I check out the display cases, nothing, want to go upstairs and explore in a couple of the other rooms only they give me to understand they're not open yet and I should just wait until they're ready and shut up, and so I sit down for a bit and wait and then, after they've opened explore that room, the main room, nothing, and head outside ...
Around the corner, at a bench, with the Batsh*t notebooks, sitting down and having a cigarette, I turn over a flyer, on it is the same graphic that was interrupting me when I was trying to take a photo. An older lady approaches...she's a few notebooks under her arm, on top a big picture of clowns, she's a psychiatrist or case-worker or something and she's checking up on me, sits with me, asks me how things are and she wants me to fill in the clown faces, color them, for my file, and I can recognize in her notebooks my handwriting, only I don't ever remember having a case worker or psychiatrist, and I certainly don't know her, why do I need help? And how did she get my handwriting anyways?....
...she's talking to me, jocular, knowingly, kindly, asking me if I'm "off the sauce", I don't know her and I'm saying that I've been generally off for a while and I can tell she doesn't believe me, she's telling me I look more jaundiced than healthy, that's why she asked, and then she leaves to go and...
...while she's gone I remember that I didn't go into the basement in that thrift shop, and that's where all the best stuff is, and then I begin thinking that I don't know my way home from here, don't know how to get to A***'s where I'm staying, and I'm confused...
****
Strange. Stuff percolating through, my unconscious is trying to get my attention about a few things for sure...the cameras not working, the places not the places, abundance of ex's, I might have to look these up, figure 'em out...Weird.