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Wednesday September 05th 2012, 8:22 pm

Up close, almost an invasion feeling of personal space. I’m sitting on the ground cross-legged indian style. I can’t really make out what is around me at all, just that it feels bright and drably colored, all of my focus is on someone sitting directly across from me much too closely. I can’t say for certain who this person is but they look a lot like a middle-aged Dick Clark, wearing an extremely pale grey suit, black tie and white shirt. I’m interacting with him in the only way I know how to equate, a sort of message therapy session, as if I’m the therapist. But its a very strange action being performed, with only my fingers I’m making these very rapid but very delicate gestures across his face, like flittering light movements that sort of push the air around his head, his brown hair gently moving from the manufactured breezy motion of my hands. I’m running my fingers across his eyes as he blinks quickly and repetitively, my hands moving as fast as they can, from the inner areas of his face outward. His eyes are intently focused on me and he is grinning incessantly not saying a word. Then I can hear Wendy’s voice, as if she is off to one side just out of my range of vision saying, “You should stop now, he is becoming overwhelmed from the treatment.” But I continue with what I’m doing only for a brief moment longer then this man suddenly is laying face down on the ground fully stretched out, no care for his fine pale grey suit, and has begun to just laugh, the laughing goes on and on as if he can’t control his reaction.

Time and space shifts. I find myself driving along a highway or road at dusk. I pass what looks like a giant refrigerator the size of maybe a three story building, but it has slightly blue tinted glass doors. I can see lights are on inside and there are large shelves of what looks like rows of pre-made milkshakes in tall plastic cups with straws rising from the lids, all in a variety of simple colors or flavors. As I’m driving along I see another building exactly the same, another glass refrigerator. But this time I decide to stop. I open the giant glass fridge door but somehow the shelves are now more my size and I’m stepping inside. I’m trying to decide which flavors to choose, thinking about which one I should get for Wendy, who isn’t with me, but I seem to have the intent to bring one to her. There is chocolate and vanilla, these seem to be the only choices, rows of these pre-made milkshakes in just these two flavors. But then I glance to the side of me and there is a long lushly polished wooden counter with stools for seats, it looks like a bar that would serve alcohol, all is dimly lit in warm tones. On the other side of this bar counter there are rows of gleaming glass bottles and silver pull handles like you might see for beer taps lining the back wall. There is an older woman standing there, she’s slightly heavyset with warm medium length brown hair and round brown eyes, wearing a pale cream colored sleeveless shirt. Her skin has an orangy tan complexion. She is looking at me somewhat without expression. She speaks “Try this flavor, maybe its better.” as she hands me a milkshake that is light creamy green with dark flecks, a mint-chip shake.

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