calming down

Christopher Hitchens was avid to talk with me. We'd exchanged phone numbers at a party. The party was given by a fat plutocrat and his harridan wife. Both of them wanted to sleep with me. The wife was definitely out. There was a flashback to my life in an Eastern European country with knowledge of a murder, and I'd run from the murderer until I realized the only place was to hide in a coffin at his house. He came and somehow knew I was in there, and just laughed and said I would never be able to leave because he owned all the border guards. I was in there, smug in the knowledge that he didn't know I had papers in a new name and could get out as soon as he wasn't chasing me, which was right now. Then I was at my mother's house and she was telling me that a Christopher Hitchens had been calling and sounding confused. Back at the party, I'd finally consented to at least go look at the plutocrat's bedroom, but the wall between it and his wife's had been removed. She was in there naked with someone and glaring at me for turning it down, It was clear that these two party hosts were just kinky and trying to debauch the talent, not an ingenuous bone in their bodies. I was telling the horny old plutocrat to leave me out of his game when, my hero, a mysterious, wiry, chiseled and intense man very, very fit for his age appeared to whisk me away from this. He deposited me at the north end of Sausalito, where I was on a cell phone explaining to Christopher Hitchens that I'd have to call him later, and somehow truthfully but obviously preposterously told him I didn't have a cell phone and had to get to a land line for us to have our serious discussion. Then I was on my racehorse and entering the race up highway 101 in Marin from San Rafael, about to blow past the leaders of the pack, upon one of which rode Christopher Hitchens. For some reason, in this race, it was not illegal, but advisable, good strategy, to enter the race long after they'd left the starting gate. Winning was not part of it, but there was no doubt I was going to come in first.

Well. I don't have a cell phone! Or a tv. Or a Blackberry. I have an aging hotrod Mac, a thirteen-year-old roam phone, a twenty-one year-old car, mostly Energy Star appliances and all extremely-parsimonious-with-electricity light bulbs. That's as with it as a I get, but I think the point of giving him my mother's number and calling it a cell phone must have been to give him the impression that I was in the world, his world. I think calling from a cell phone I don't own and entering the race from half way through it were both about not being of the world I was in.

I think overall this was a good dream, about returning to the world my way and succeeding in it my way... which is not the way of the world... nossirreebob, it is not.