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A Dream I Had, and a Man I Met
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I had strange dreams last night. I was on an island encrusted with ancient ruins—where the ruins ended and the land of the island began wasn't clear. They were greek, or atlantean, or something. Large-scale mosaic brickwork and tilework dominated their surface. Arches, arcades, galleries, and plazas made up the architecture.

I was there with my girlfriend/partner/other, and we were accompanied by an other couple. We were really a foursome, but the connection was tenuous, or maybe it was just recent. The other woman was dusky complexioned, dark-haired. Oddly, she had two pairs of breasts one above the other, though the dream never did get to the point where we were done exploring the ruins and all turned to each other. It was unusual, yet she looked normal in her green tunic. A lull in the dream, sights of the ocean at the roots of the island. Then the earthquake shattered the façades, leaving potholes in the brickwork, and vast spans of the ceiling of open galleries threatening to fall. There was a peak on the island, low, but it rose above the ruins; green, grassy, natural, and safe, where I found myself as I left the dream.

This morning I met a man on the short walk between my front door and the bus stop. He said, "hello," and kept looking at me, as I looked back. I expected him to ask for money, but he just remarked that this is a strange city. He didn't look homeless—except for bad teeth, he was well-kept and healthy-looking. I asked him how he meant. Apparently, it's because you can't find pot in the city centre—he had to walk far out east of downtown before finding anyone selling pot. "It's all crack, crack, crack downtown." He said he was schizophrenic, that the marijuana helped him medically, and that he lives on Vancouver Island. He was visiting Vancouver for the first time, his mother living in North Van. I pointed out that we were heading right for Commercial Drive where he'd probably have better luck than anywhere else finding pot, though with Da Kine closed I didn't have any specific idea of what he should look for.

Standing at the bus stop, he asked me if I knew any schizophrenics, whether I knew what it meant. "It's not multiple-personalities. I hear voices." I knew that, or at least that it's one kind of schizophrenia, but I'd never met anyone who was schizophrenic. He said that it makes it hard, when you hear voices and answering them makes people around you afraid. He told me that he'd written a poem—everyone he'd shown it said it was great, that he should get it published, and would I like to hear it, it's not very long? I wish I could remember it now—they were right, it's very good. He recited it with a confidence and delivery of any poet I've ever heard at a reading. It captured, in perhaps two or three stanzas, his experience living as someone different, and the difficulty of knowing one thing while people around you know differently. The language was simple yet beautiful, and the cadence natural.

The bus arrived and people loaded just as he finished, and all I could say was "cool," for a review or I would have missed my bus. I regret I couldn't do it more justice, but I spent the bus ride with a smile on my face.

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Those are such rich and poignant things, both of them. Thanks for sharing.

You open yourself up to such amazing experiences :)

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