These dreams always seem to have something to do with San Francisco. Not surprisingly, as this is where I travelled to and from for the last almost two years since mom got sick. This was, except for my first flight, where I foolishly transferred at LAX, was my port of entry and departure for all my US flights. Before this I hadn’t been home since May 2011, for a wedding and to pass my MA exams. So this was my new home, of sorts, where so much would transpire. The city, though, is always a patchwork of other places too, in my dreams. Scruffy neighbourhoods, long train or bus rides, memories of London’s terrain, both over and underground. Always racing to get to the airport. This time there was also, strangely, I think, memories of drinking, of parties, of a decadence in the truest sense, of this decay of my inner self, in an upstairs lounge, probably over another daytime commerce, as was the style often in DC. But next to this lounge was a room, more like a large closet, filled with my things, and it had no door, anyone could wander in and take what they wanted. Maybe this is because I lost an earring yesterday or something, but it was like I was realising in the dream that my stuff was just exposed to anyone and everyone. I tried to gather it up, decide what was the most important that I could fit in my arms, it spilled out. At times it felt like this lounge was on a boat, a yacht, a large one. Maybe that’s because boats are travelling too, unattached to land, homeless in their own way. Maybe this was all one big metaphor for my life, my soul, exposed, unguarded, there for the taking for all of those who passed through.

Then there was the studio apartment in a residence, one that has appeared in my dreams before, the one with the scary elevator. This time it was next door to an office, where one of my friends or older mentor type woman worked. I was still rushing to get back east, almost missing trains, or taking the wrong train in the wrong direction. I remember passing Palo Alto, so I knew I was way to far south and would miss my flight. Maybe I rescheduled the flight, as the next day, I was off again, from the same studio (but with high ceilings) apartment, with bags packed but overflowing, too much luggage, too many things, not enough decisions made to know what to do or what to pack. Just time to go, leaving things unresolved, going back to another part of my life. This time there was also a dog to be cared for, work, and office in the same building, just down the hall. Perhaps it was Laura who’d come into this dream too, I was worried for her, but then found that she’d been given a job, helping in PR or something like that, and would be ok. I was glad she was taken care of, but also a bit jealous because she was secure and got to stay.

My jealously of her, what was it? She was such a magnetic person, gangly, skinny, young, with her drawn on eyebrows and funny little banged bob. What was it about her that made her so likeable? She was hilarious, we laughed so much together, roared, acted like kids together, which was such a welcome relief for me, and I would think for her too. I think she also understood so much in life, probably from having lived so much already at such a young age. She was on the fast track to nowhere, to so much trouble, when I met her at 14, she was already kicked out of the ‘alternative school’. She must’ve gotten her GED at some point, as she did go to college, but more on that another day.

Back in this familiar dreamscape and its scruffy neighbourhoods, I say this with love, as every neighbourhood worth its salt is a little bit scruffy. Like the Sunset (Inner and Outer) in San Fran, it’s only scruffy from years of being lived in. With row houses that are probably lovely and cosy on the inside, the streets are concrete. With not enough trees on them, how could it feel anything more than scruffy? Even down the street only a few blocks, where it meets the ocean, it is respectably scruffy, with the run down Rodeway Inn and the surrounding cars and campers where people live, and the best view on the ocean you could ever imagine.

Always travelling, scrambling, late, worried, is this just revealing how I’ve always felt, my whole life? Not really sure what the goal was, the aim, I just kept going, carrying my sadness and loneliness with me wherever I went. To the next apartment, relationship, city, job I went, dragging my baggage behind me.