While asleep on the couch, I dreamt I went to an eatery/snack stand, one I had passed before but never really looked closely at. B and I went in to get Dippin’ Dots.
The guy working the counter was Billy Burroughs, of whose chaotic demise I read about earlier today. It was taking forever to get the Dippin’ Dots — they were making them on-site. But they seemed really melted, and it was a process to freeze them.
Outside were a bunch of picnic benches, reminiscent of a boardwalk atmosphere but not near the ocean. Homeless people congregated there. At one point, I thought about making a movie about this group—they were close to one another, and didn’t strike me as homeless right away.
But B was having a rough time. I found her with her knees clutched to her chest, dirty, at the bottom of a big flowerpot. I had the Dippin’ Dots with lots of chocolate syrup, banana split—and we were getting out of there.
[03.10.2005]
The Writing of John B. Randall 