Also

Last night I had a strange dream. (sorry I realized that I wanted to keep writing, to spill this out on a page before I forget all of it. It goes like this:

The night before I get a call from my mother and she tells me she got me a plane ticket to New York and that I would leave at three a.m. that night. For some reason I questioned it, Not just questioned it, I screamed at her (mom, this is by no means a reason never to buy me a plane ticket to New York) Sure, normal Dustin would question this but I think he would jump at the chance. Cut to me arriving very early in the morning to my friends neighborhood in Brooklyn. I couldn't or didn't talk to him, but instead I saw a stationary store. It was right next to the cafe where his girlfriend used to work part time. I really wanted a pen. It was snowing. I went inside with the one duffel bag I had with me. It had just one glass case and a pen where you refilled the ink very methodically. There was a French Girl working the counter and doing just that. She unapologetically said "bonjour" and went about her business. I was entranced and stood there watching her work. Then, with ink stained hands she held out the pen for me. I had been watching her for a few minutes so I thought I knew what I was doing. She watched me do it once then grabbed my hand a guided me, wordlessly, breathlessly. After that, she let me work. I was transferring the ink for one box that was the stores into a smaller one. After her foreign hello, she said nothing and I followed suit. It took a long time, I was transferring the ink one drop at a time. I remember the first few drops. The patterns they made on the light brown of the wood as they spattered and stayed. Then I saw the pool rise and felt accomplished. Think of dipping a straw into water about half an inch then capping one end, holding it and releasing it into another glass of water. I saw her smile, she said I was a natural.

I remember that smile, it was lazy with a hint of pride. We fell asleep together. It was exhausting and I hadn't yet watched the sun rise. I never thought it strange that she had mattresses all around her shop, behind the counter. We I awoke I wasn't alone with her. She wasn't there. It was rather a scene out of an independent film about music. Topless, bearded men in trucker hats, women with tights and suspenders, married people who looked thirteen in ironic t-shirts, brightly colored ray ban wearers. And they were all mad.

"Who the hell are you?"
"What the fuck do you think you are doing here?"
"You can't just crash here, man."
They screamed, but their eyes squinted quickly as they remembered their hangovers. I stood up on a mattress or a chair that faced all of them.
"Look I just got in from San Francisco and I saw this place and came in and I filled ink, or whatever with Slyviana, (I will never forget that name) then crashed. I woke up and you were all here."
"Get the fuck out." I grabbed my bag and left. I think it was still early in the morning. One of the guys, now fully clothed came after me. He started pushing. I yelled and said that I was leaving and I'm sorry. He threw a punch at me and missed. I threw one and hit him square in the face. Then something took a hold of me and I hit him again. He was swinging wildly and I realized he was about twice my size, but I kept knocking him back. My Brooklynite friend found me and I ran over to him.(Side note, isn't it strange how "ran over to him" the phrasing of the word, isn't gay but if I were to say "I ran to him" it would be. Prepositions are amazing.) So I ran over to him and was all excited and told him few details. The main point I wanted to express was that I found out I was good at fighting. Now at this point other guys had come out and were even more angry that I beat up the previous guy, along with crashing at their place without notice. He was game and we joined back into a fray.

Cut to running into a concrete structure. (These have been showing up a lot lately.) I think more people came out. We were laughing and I lit up a cigarette. I grabbed him by the shoulders, with the cigarette in my teeth and looked into his face. I was grinning, wide eyed. I started hopping and whooping. I leaned back and screamed. Tim did the same. With our now bruised faces, I threw my arm around him and we walked off into the distance.

What the Hell does it all mean? And where did Sylviana go? French Girls.

Dustin