I kept dreaming I was lying next to someone who was wrapped in shroud, someone I knew. Perhaps they were alive, perhaps dead. I wasn't scared or grossed out by it. Mimi the cat sleeps on my right side these nights. And I have to fight for covers sometimes.
There was another similar shroud, but I wasn't sleeping next to it. I kept waking up and it was still there, and I dreamed about it some more. This went on all night. I petted the cat, who was snoring, for reassurance. I was swaddled in bedcovers, sleeping like the dead. Then I woke myself up snoring. Cat on my chest.
I had another dream where Ken Bullock and I were on the at the old Mayflower pub on 4th St. in San Rafael, drinking whiskey to the dead lovers and relations. My cousin Sinead was there too. We drank whiskey out of an odd assortment of bowls and cast-iron frying pans, like cats. Toast and after toast. So many dead. I was worried about driving home because we had at least two more toasts to go.
Kelly Slattery was there too, along with all the Woodacre drunks: Ken's father Keith Bullock, Cal Davis, Old Man Slattery and Sinead's father, Bill Dinsmore—they all drank together at that tiny corner bar on Railroad in Woodacre. Did Kelly's father die too?
It was busy at the bar. So many dead. So many toasts. Where did my dead father fit into this dream memory, except as a young man? Did we remember to toast JFK?
In the third dream, Ken and I take a little red wagon out for a spin down the steep Lagunitas roads. We nearly get hit by cars while towing the wagon up to the top of the hill. Each time we felt a little braver, and we took the wagon a little further up the top of the steep hill, then rode it down like bats out of hell. Seeking a thrill ride with death.
November 22
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