In my dream the bronze Wilfredo Lam sculpture stands over the show I’ve curated. Metal strips peel from its body just like the flesh peels from mine.

In my dream we can’t move the shallow dish.

In my dream the theatre lobby has become the stalking ground of a demon. It has abducted my mother. It shifts from form to form until I corner it in the shape of a potato which I stab over and over again.

In my dream the green water tower is a difficult and murky climb. We take the circuit board with us.

In my dream our scheme with the clay and covering our mouths just isn’t going to work.

In my dream R is performing at an event and I work up my courage and tell them how much I admire that work and how much I want to talk about art, especially Greer Lankton, with them. It seems to be working since they are winding their arms around me, despite how toungetied I am.

In my dream I know he used to be famous.

In my dream the dorm is set up in a converted parking structure and a group of students are living in a section that is mostly a massive tank filled with water and several sharks. I start across the sloping concrete floor and a massive shark with the face of an ageing man launches itself at me, wedging its head between the plexiglass panels that make up the wall. For the students, this is no big deal, but I am terrified that it might get loose.

In my dream the Lego corporate office on Sixth Avenue has a vending machine in the wall that sells unique accessories for small change. I head down the escalator so quickly that A bowl over an elderly man.

In my dream I pick out at a container of coleslaw and two thighs from an open air fried chicken stand at the far western end of 42nd street. Night is coming on and I know the owners have put something aside for me.

In my dream I am leaving an altar.

In my dream it stands aside in the quiet gloom. I think that it’s an outfit. I know it’s not mine.

In my dream J, the former performance artist has been wearing a particular fur suit for six months. She walks around the room with ease, a pair of wooden shingles attached to her hips.

In my dream batches of objects are piled together on poles. They are ours and it’s satisfying.

In my dream we are watching a clip of an obscure Broadway musical from the Fifties with disjointed choreography and an ensemble dressed as absurd gremlins. I loudly say that it’s everything I want in a show.

In my dream slow rain is falling on the piled up used furniture for sale in the empty lot. There is a three-tiered standing ashtray made of hammered aluminum. A few older men sit around joking with someone trying to make a bust by wrapping cord around crumpled paper. Turns out it’s P, a former student of mine.

In my dream we are back in the room where he died.

In my dream the wooden structures in the yard are almost chewed through.

In my dream the King jokes with other people on  the receiving line but not me. I am out of favor. It leaves me free to get lunch elsewhere.

In my dream my search for a copy of today’s paper leads me into a small private image library tucked in the back of a train station. It’s exciting to be handling manila folders again.