Dream Man One: …a stairwell open to the outdoors, iron-wrought stairs, an apartment building maybe. There are leaves blown in under the stairs. A man has a stick with which he is crushing and mixing spiders in with brittle leaves. The spiders are in webs (exact and focused in the dream), but fling strands down, which they climb down into the man’s grinding spot, where he mashes them with the end of the stick. He’s showing me how to do it, but I don’t understand.
There’s another man on the stairs who encourages me to make my own spider-tipped stick. I ask him to explain the purpose of the stick. If I know what it’s for, then I will know whether I need a short or long stick, a thin or thick, a stiff or flexible one. I correct the first man’s method of raking leaves from under the stairs for his grinding, but neither man helps me with my confusion.
Dream Man Two: I’m walking beside a man on a sidewalk. I feel happy and carefree. I’m gesturing with my hands, encouraging the man to do something. I fling my arms up high in a wide motion. At that moment, I see that I’m being photographed. There is another man ahead of us who holds a large, black camera with two hands. It’s a bulky, outdated machine. The man is standing on a concrete bench, snapping photos of me (or us). At an intersection, either the cameraman or a third man begins to erect sticks, branches. He plants them in the dirt, sticking up, at the points of a triangle around another man. At the tip of the branches, he wraps aluminum foil so the sticks will act as antenna, at least that is the understanding.
Dream Man Three: I am in a small, antiquated shop. There is a man working in the shop at a high, sloping desk, a writing desk. He has dark, thick hair, long-ish, and pale skin. He is thin and wears a white shirt with dark buttons in a column down the front. The collar is high, turned up, and stiff. He has dark eyes that peer quietly from under his thick, dark bangs. I think he is a calligrapher and that he takes custom orders. He can hear me, but he can’t see me. He is not sure I am real or if I am only a voice in his head. He wonders if he’s insane. I have been with him for a while; we have a history and relationship. I speak gently to him. I stand near him as he works at his desk. I lean forward and say, “I love you.” This confuses him more than ever. He can’t understand how a possible voice in his head can be in love with him and why he would love her back…if he does.
Note: I tried to remember the calligrapher’s name, but am not sure. It may have been Phineas.