At first I was on a large, rambling farm, possibly post-apocalyptic. Sort of a cross between Mad Max and Little House on the Prairie, minus Michael Landon. A number of other writers were present, and we were trying to get the farm equipment working. Lots of bits of business, as they say in the theatre, until I was exeunt, pursued by pickup trucks.
After that Mother of the Child and I were staying, separately, in a big old seaside hotel. It was pretty much the Inn at Spanish Head, filtered through dream architecture, including the spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean. She and I were trying to organize a party, the logistics of which kept slipping away from me in dream-logic fashion. We had a room, but not a time. Then we had a time, but not a room. Then we'd lost the guest list. That sort of thing.
I was called in to sit down to dinner with some visiting friends in a gorgeous dining room overlooking the ocean. My dinner guests were an older African-American woman and her three sons, a sullen teen-ager in dreads and giant t-short, and a pair of twins about
...
What does it all mean? Heck if I know. Survival, competence, transition, acceptance, family, race, alienation, familiarity — enough themes here to fill a book.