Parade for one

A balloon man walks down the street on stilts. One large balloon dangles from a stick and a girl walks underneath along with an entourage of friends playing instruments, there are dogs too. I whistle to get them to stop. Can I have a card I say? Beckett would love this tiny parade dedicated to one person, her. The balloon man on stilts hands me a card, as soon as your done with this girl, can you please give me a call? Beckett is going to love this. I watch the girl smile as the balloon above her head bounces. Then I slip into a vintage store and peruse indigo textiles with friends and the boss above my boss. She's trying to be friendly, shows me all the stuff in the store she wants for herself. I claim I'm not buying anything and skip around the store taking pictures of things with my old camera with a viewfinder. It's difficult to frame things up at a distance I tell her. I take pictures of textures, rocks, the bathroom floor. I hope the balloon man calls.  

Watch something

There's a line to get into work next to a gift shop in NYC. They sell books and paperweights, pens and scarves. My boss is with me, a coworker too. He wears glasses and a salesman who also wears glasses asks if he needs to count four times because of his four eyes. No one thinks this is funny. The salesman turns on a nature video for us while we wait in line. The tv is boxy and old.  

Hiding

Windows open inside a Victorian-era hotel in Fraser. I am with an ex-boyfriend from high school and some other people from my past, mostly boys who've been victims of the system. The hotel is a suite and feels like a house. People come in and out for a cocktail party I'm throwing. Miss Universe from the 90's is there with her baby. She's beautiful, but she's missing an arm and walks with a limp. Her baby looks exactly like her. The suite clears out, but I sense someone is still inside with me. I walk around picking things up, afraid that my ex-boyfriend may try to grab me from behind. He's older now, instead of punk rock t-shirts and a shaved head, he wears glasses and a cardigan. He's creepy. I have to go to work. I'm a news anchor alongside my boss. She does her segment and walks towards me through a dusty room filled with furniture covered in white sheets. She's visibly tired. Her usual red lips are bare. I'm afraid for her to sleep here. If she hides under the sheets they won't find her. The predators are everywhere. I feel them. We can't fall asleep without first hiding our bodies. I think of my ex-boyfriend's poorly constructed sentences from the prison letters he's sent me. I feel sorry for him, that he can't communicate the way he needs to. I want him to find me here in this pile of sheets and at the same time, I'm terrified he will find me here. The alarm goes off. Get up my boss says, it's your turn to be on the show.  

Moon Zappa and the Balcony

I'm hanging out with Moon Zappa in a city that seems like a combination of NY and Hilo, Hawaii. It's windy and rainy, but warm, and we are standing on a balcony overlooking plants and traffic below and other balconies across from us. Laundry is drying on a rack and a bicycle is propped up on a wall. It's my bicycle. Cherry wood colored and dutch inspired in design. I wonder why it's here. A tall, strange man appears with my boss. They are drinking cocktails and seem slightly drunk. I think Moon Zappa disappears at this point. Or maybe I become her. We migrate inside. My boss shows me all of these relics she's found in Sweden. The man just nods and laughs. I notice all the plants in the room and the warm gray colors of the walls. I'm eager to see more.