An old dream, undated:
I had the strangest, most intense, detailed, almost novelistic dream the other night. It concerned a community of Utopian religious believers who lived somewhere in the Appalachian mountains. They lived in a big, somewhat ramshackle ranch house on a property with several other shacks and barns, along with vintage pick-up trucks covered in vines, old wells, chicken coops, and so forth. Although the idea of an isolated community of devout Christians has some dark overtones in light of Waco and the militia movement, this was nothing like that. These folks, committed pacifists, radiated a wholesomeness that was neither false nor cloying, while at the same time exhibiting all the usual human frailties without undue self-laceration. Their religion seemed very natural, very peaceful, very human.
I was among them, although the “I” of the dream was not Will Stenberg. Rather, I was a young boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old, with long yellow hair and big blue eyes. I was a dreamer – shy, precocious, with some of the qualities of a mystic; even in such a communal environment I found ways to be alone, spending a great deal of my time in the woods further up the mountain, lean and shirtless, half-wild, restlessly exploring.
The first event of the dream was a raid on the community by some kind of hostile force from the outside world. Although pacifists, our creed allowed us the right to self-defense, and to fend off the invaders we rolled large boulders down the mountain. In the course of this, we killed a man, and although the defense was successful, the feeling was widespread that there would be a retaliation that we would be unable to protect ourselves against. So the community lived with the knowledge that their Utopia was probably doomed – although that day didn’t come in the course of my dream.
The next plot point of the dream concerned a girl. Apparently at some point in the not-too-distant future, I had to marry, and she was the one I had my eyes on. She was a couple years older, beautiful and dark-haired, and to my great delight she seemed to reciprocate my affection. Her flirtations, though, were ambiguous: I couldn’t tell if they were subtly patronizing, if she thought of me as a cute little boy whose interest in her was harmless and sweet but not to be taken seriously. Complicating matters, there was an older boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, kind of a rough, hard-working, sullen, handsome type, who also had eyes for this girl. I suspected that while she continued to encourage my attentions, these two were meeting in secret for attentions of a more adult kind that I could not provide.
Sound like a lot for one dream? It was!
Finally, the third act or sequence of the dream involved me – or should I say “my character”? – deciding to go hunting in the woods, presumably to impress this girl and prove that I too could be a strong provider, not merely a dreamy poet. So I armed myself with a bow and a quiver of arrows and went further up the mountain. Somehow, I took the wrong road and ended up in this giant house. This part of the dream is more “dream-like,” lacking the weirdly vivid realism of the other segments. I kept climbing stairs and ending up in higher and higher stories of the house, with each floor in greater disrepair than the one before it. Finally, I was covered in spiderwebs and scratches and walking across floors that creaked and splintered as I walked, in some places crumbling entirely.
I finally made it out of the house – it was as if I was trying to get out by going UP, strangely, and I don’t remember how I eventually got out, but I know I returned back to the community property and then took the OTHER path up the mountain, to resume my attempt at hunting. I hadn’t gone very far when a wild pig came down the path, in a rage and headed straight for the farm. The scary thing about the pig, other than the fact that it was in a murderous fury, was that it looked like it had been roasted over a spit already: it was burnt and mottled and mutilated. What was worse, I looked down the path toward home and saw that it was heading for a group of toddlers playing in the grass. I ran after it, shooting arrows. I was no hunter and my arrows kept missing their mark while this terrifying creature chased the screaming children. Arrow after arrow landed harmlessly in the grass. Adults came to the scene but none were armed. Screaming and chaos reigned. I couldn’t get a good shot. And then … an arrow hit flesh, but not the flesh of a pig. In my panic and confusion, I had shot an arrow right between the eyes of a child, who fell dead.
I remember trying to actually will myself to wake up when that happened. Sheer horror. The dream ended with me in tears, screaming, running down the mountain, knowing I could never return to my place and my people.
I had a dream that LL Cool J was my roommate. He was also a Vietnam Vet with PTSD. I woke up one morning and he was freaking out, throwing punches at the air near where I was sleeping.
I was like, “Dude, LL. Sit down.”
He sat down on the bed.
“You need to find an outlet for this anger,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
I said, “The last song I remember you putting out was in, like, the 90s. You’re one of the originals; your fan base is still out there. You need to do another record, and rap about this stuff. People will respect you for it.”
“Thanks, Will,” he said. “You’re completely right.”
I had a dream the other night that I was in an elevator with the young John Lennon and Bob Dylan. Bob asked me to play a song, but John grabbed my guitar and said, “Thanks for bringing this for me.”
Bob looked at me like he was kind of embarrassed, then John played a song. Afterwards he sort of berated me and just acted really cocky and mean.
I was like, “Dude, you’re John Lennon. You’re a great man. You don’t need to abuse people to be great. I don’t deserve this.”
Then he said, avoiding the subject, “What’s that sticker on your guitar, anyway?”
I said, “It’s a band you don’t know, from the future. That’s where I’m from: the future. And I have to go back now.”
I was in Georgia on a long trip with family. Hanging out in tiny airport with a good ol’ boy and looking through a copy of the New Testament. Also reading a book by AD, about Georgia, where, in the dream, she was from. Very funny and anecdote-filled read. One chilling story about some kind of demonic child who ran through the neighborhood screaming one night and traumatized a lot of people solely by his scream.
Another part of the dream, on road-trip with mom driving and random Fort Bragg friends in back, including Jubal;. Listening to old tapes which featured dream-songs from actual artists like a “Brownsville Girl”-type Dylan song with a verse that went something like “Everywhere I see the seeds/of intolerance and greed/but it don’t bother me, I’m not malicious/and I can’t believe another man/has come around to take your hand/if he don’t watch his step, he’ll end up sleeping with the fishes.” Jubal made a predictably disparaging comment on Dylan and I told him to shut up. Also fictional Smiths songs, L. Cohen.
A bit of a flying dream. Way up on a hill overlooking Big River beach. I jump a little and then sort of glide down the hill, never touching the ground. In the dream this makes perfect sense because the slope of the ground is such that each time my body-mass begins to sink, the ground is a little further below me, so I never quite touch. By the time I hit the beach I have so much momentum that I can glide a bit longer. It lasts longer than I expect; I go out over the ocean a bit, but manage to turn around and finish off my flight with a backflip.
There is a party going on at the beach. JH walks up to me and congratulates me on my flight. I explain how it worked.
Another flying dream. I demonstrated my usual flight powers to a bunch of my friends back at home on Wall Street. Everyone else had powers but apparently mine was pretty remarkable. I explain to them in great detail how it takes places with muscle motion and carries you a short distance upwards with each twitch of the right muscle, but then you begin to sink and you need to create momentum again with the muscle-twitch. (This is always how I fly in my dreams.) There was something about me having to use that power in some kind of competition or contest and I may have to carry a large rock or something, which I was unsure I could do.
Outside of a house, a big yard at night. Lots of people coming into the yard through a gate, many dressed outlandishly. One guy covered in bearskins and heads. Then R runs by, dressed in a cute bear suit, like a teddy bear, but with a cut-out for her face. DJ is behind her. I ask DJ if that was really her, and how could it be, because she is dead. He says it’s her, and she’s not dead, not really. I go find her and we give each other little kisses and have an emotional reunion. But then she says something about being married to me and other delusional-sounding things. I ask her about being dead and she vehemently denies it. She turns into a bird and begins to attack me. Things get ugly and intense. I am yelling at her to accept that she is dead. She will not; the idea enrages her. Finally I grab hold of her bird-form and hold it still and say a prayer, asking God and the angels to accept her into heaven. I wake up from the dream yelling “R! R!” Intense, intense, intense.
I am writing a novel. It is written on hundreds of different-sized scraps of paper. The publisher, an elitist rich guy, rejects it. But then I am visited in my attic loft by two twins, also publishers, hip and young. First they are both male, then one male, one female. They are interested. I describe it to them as an absurdist, existentialist hard-boiled mystery. I say it features a hero who mostly sits in an empty room and stares out a window all day. They want me to read them a couple of pages. I get really nervous. It is a first draft, super rough. Also, I apparently collaborated with YH on it, and I am not willing to admit that.
But I need to read them a couple of pages, so I begin, but as I am reading I am noticing problems with the sentence-structure and everything else, so I am forced to edit and revise on the spot, verbally, as I read. Nerve-wracking! Each sentence needs to be transformed into something better, as I read it. I read very, very slowly, which feels awkward. It begins with a description of a cityscape with smoky streets and something I call “ragged sky-holes.” The female publisher likes this.
Then the private-eye protagonist goes to visit the eccentric rich man who may have a case for him. The rich man in the novel is the same as the rich man who rejected the novel. He is in his huge backyard staring at his giant goldfish pond, in which a child plays. The hero approaches him from behind and cannot seem to get his attention. Finally the rich man turns around and says something like, “It was unnecessary for you to make me turn around simply to see that you are not there.”
So this guy is crazy. The hero makes some comment about the little boy being a “gold-fish herder,” because he basically is chasing goldfish around the pool. The whole scene is absurd, comical, and the hero has no idea what he is doing there.
Heard from AH – in a men’s bathroom, no less – that I had some packages at the local post office. Her and Cas had seen my name on some list there. I was confused because I had just picked up packages there earlier that day and I tried to tell her she may be mistaken. She was right though and the packages were actually letters, partly opened, wrinkled, and not addressed properly. They were from L; pictures of R (who is dead). The pictures were extremely yellowed and faded and she looked strange. In some of them she was with other women who looked like different versions of her. I was going through them with some of the ladies from the post office who were making weird comments about which of the women were pretty and which were not.
Next, I was at a wake for JM. Deeply disturbing. It was basically the Community School lined up in two rows, facing each other, and sharing memories and stories and such. We were on some bluffs. Someone commented that people were talking too much about themselves in their stories, so YH went next, reading a slightly fictionalized account he wrote about his friendship with JM (he placed it in the 1960s). As he started reading, I wandered off from the group, towards the road, where other people were arriving. I felt devastated by that kind of sick grief you get when someone dies, that horrible, helpless feeling. It seemed really real.
I woke up to a feeling of extreme relief and a need to talk to JM. Oddly, I found that EA had texted me, needing to hear my voice because of a dream she had just had in which I had wings, and was lying down on a rock and preparing to die.
Dreams are strange.
NS says an old dream of mine that featured her has sort of come true.
I dreamt I was walking along a beach with my brothers. The beach was divided up into different segments with little signs like you might see in a National Park. Each segment had been sacred to a different Indian tribe for different reasons. My brothers and I were going to each pick a spot to stay the night.
I came to a sign that said that this part of the beach had been sacred to a tribe called The People Of The Voice Of The Turtle. They believed that one day a turtle would speak and it would herald the end of the world. I decided to sleep there.
I made my bed as far as possible from the water. At some point in the night I woke up to a strange squeaking sound. A tiny sea turtle had dug out of the sand near my bed and was emitting a high-pitched noise. Then it bit my hand. After that it went back in the sand and fissures started to appear in the beach, with sea water coming through.
I got out of there and found my brothers.
I wasn’t even in my dream the other night. It was just like watching a movie. There was this guy who lived in the wilderness and the authorities were always after him, not because of any crime he committed other than choosing not to live in society. They could never find him, and they weren’t sure whether he was alone or not. He wasn’t. He had a wife and a little boy. They lived a happy life in the ridges and valleys, hunting and fishing and moving from shelter to shelter.
One day though the authorities caught up with him and his family. They captured his wife and then cornered him and his little boy in a run-down cabin. Both the woman and child put their hunting knives to their necks as if to say, “We will cut our throats before we go with you.” But then his son lowered the knife and said, “I’m sorry, daddy, but I want to go with them.” And he surrendered himself to the police.
The father then made a daring escape out of the cabin, pursued by police with heavy weaponry. He came to a ravine and started rolling down it, curled up into a ball to make himself a smaller target for the guns. He made it into the woods but one tenacious cop caught up with him. They had a long moment of looking at each other, then the cop, who secretly admired the man, said, “Go. Now.”
That night he went up to the top of a mountain, all alone. There he was joined by three very old turtles. He gave them three apples, and they each took one single bite, then retreated back into the woods.
I dreamed last night that I was standing outside the military housing where I used to live with my dad. I was with him, grandma, and other members of my family. We were facing a little church and watching the mostly black congregation arrive. A couple of ushers came out, dressed in colorful suits and fez hats. They brought baskets over and we all dropped money in. Then one of them said, “You know, you should come in and check it out.” Most of us just hemmed and hawed but somebody in the group headed towards the church and soon we were all walking that way.
Inside it was extremely colorful with lots of silk and lace. People were dressed outlandishly, like Elton John in the 70s. There were a few drag queens as well. A funky little gospel band was playing. We sat down in our pews and the sermon began. It made me a little uncomfortable because the preacher was putting down Catholics and my Irish-Catholic grandma was there. I flipped through the little books on the pews and they were filled with images of giant jellyfish floating underwater, and vast expanses of seaweed that looked like cities. My dad, uncomfortable, whispered some bad joke in my ear that had something to do with comparing the jellyfish to Bill and Hilary Clinton.
The band played a bit, then stopped, and someone in a pew ahead of us made a sound, like, “Huh!” In response, my lips kind of twitched. I realized that he was going to start speaking in tongues and that I was responding, that I might join in. I did not want that so I fled the church and sat on the lawn outside. A little black kid in a suit came out and put his hand on my forehead, but I pushed it off. He said, “Is there anything I can do to help you through this?”
I went back in and the band was now playing Bob Dylan’s “Gotta Serve Somebody,” which made me feel better. I sat down right in front of the band. After that song the preacher sang one, kind of a slow soul ballad called, “They Killed My Neighborhood.”
The service ended and I walked out with my family.
Watching old video of my dad and mom when they were together. It has been transferred to DVD and somehow made incredibly vivid and clear. They are at the beach; my mom is in the background with my brother and I and my dad is talking to whoever is holding the camera. He is chewing tobacco and talking about the military. He looks so young. He says he joined the military because he wanted to be part of an “occupying power,” but he says this ironically.
It is later and my little brother and I are living with my dad. I am in my early teens. These two weird guys have moved in with us. They are from a part of my dad’s past that he has never talked about – something criminal. One guy is tall and thin with a gaping crevice in his face, like a wound that won’t heal. The other guy is short and fat. They watch that DVD with all of us and start giving him shit for joining the military, like he was supposed to join them and didn’t, but they are here to correct that.
They scare my brother and I a lot, and one day when I am home alone they come in the room and terrorize and threaten me, saying that I better not interfere with their plans for my dad. The tall one enumerates all the horrible things he will do to Jesse and I if we talk. The short ones points a shotgun at me. It’s mine, so I tell him it’s not loaded. He pulls the trigger and some buckshot kind of falls out of the barrel. It has been loaded, but misfired.
I get scared, then angry and grab the tall guy’s head and just sink my fingers into the wound in his face. His head feels soft like an overripe fruit. He screams in agony. I am in complete control.
A little later, at a picnic table, trying to explain to dad what they did. He starts off skeptical, then begins listening. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jesse running towards the parking lot where the two bad guys are. I run and grab him, bring him back to dad. Dad understands. We are together.
I walk into a small office-like place, not much bigger than a trailer. It’s some kind of business, open to the public, but not sure what kind. There are Romani-themed photos taped up everywhere and books by Jan Yoors. No one is there. I come back later and a Romani woman is there. I sit down to talk to her and she is very friendly and welcoming. I try to speak a little Romanes to her and she freezes. Just stares at me. Then disappears. I come back later and it is all gadje working there, like she had never existed.
This was a few nights ago. I dreamt I was in a strip-club and this weird cosmic event occurred: every single person on earth suddenly found themselves holding a plastic bag full of fruit.
Then His All-Holiness Bartholomew, Patriarch of Constantinople, appeared. He berated me for going to strip-clubs and for general sexual immorality. Then his tone softened. He blessed me, making the sign of the cross on my forehead, and said, “You are robbing yourself.”
I had a dream I was back at my dad’s house, out in the woods. I was just hanging around outside when I saw this bizarre creature on the grassy incline behind the barn. It was long and covered in black, felt-like fur, and looked like a cross between a Chinese dragon and a stegosaurus. I immediately ran up the hill to get closer and check it out. It started undulating wildly like it was losing control of its body functions and it sort of stumbled down the hill.
Then it broke apart: turned out it wasn’t a real monster but an elaborate costume/machine run by a bunch of women, including some I know such as JH, WO, and ME. Nobody looked very happy.
It turned out the creature they were representing was some kind of entity in local Native folklore and they were on their way to a nearby reservation to play the part of the monster in an educational and spiritual ceremony.
I felt bad for ruining it but explained to everyone that there was no way I could live with myself if I saw a creature like that and didn’t investigate further.
JH understood and later showed me some pictures of a recent underwater photoshoot she did with Kim Kardashian and Kanye West.
Because there’s always one part of a dream that doesn’t fit at all.
I had a dream last night that I went to the gym and my wife had this work-out partner who was some dude I had never seen. She pulled me aside and was like, “Maybe this isn’t a good time to talk about this, but I’ve been working out with this guy. However I want you to know that I have this bowling partner, and she’s pretty hot. If you wanted to go bowling with her, that’s fine.”
I dreamed that SF, who in real life has some kind of viral infection, found out that in fact she was pregnant, although not sexually active. It turned out that she had a rare medical condition: she had absorbed the embryo of her twin, in utero, which could later gestate at any time in her sexual maturity. So she was due to give birth to her sister.
Undated dreams about my friend Jubal, from shortly after his death:
Not everyone takes comfort in this sort of thing, but in case you do, I would like to tell my friends back home that I dreamed of Jubal Stedmanst night.
I was out in the woods at my dad’s house in Glen Blair. Jubal was a country boy like me and we had some really good times out there. That’s where those pictures of him with the hawk wings were taken.
I was just standing around and he sort of walked up out of nowhere. We had a brief conversation. He told me he knew that he had died. I asked him how he was doing now and he smiled a little and said, “Fine.” I asked him if he could tell me what it was like over there and he said he couldn’t.
That was about it. After that we just started running around in the grass like little children.
I dreamt about Jubal again last night.
Interestingly, it was basically an unrelated and unpleasant dream until he showed up and interrupted it.
It was a variant of this recurring stress-dream I have in which a party at my dad’s place out in Glen Blair (a rural valley) gets out of hand.
Glen Blair was also the setting of his first visit.
In this one, I was walking down the path to the barn and there were revelers passed out everywhere. It was night. I was feeling nervous and upset, and then Jubal walked out of the shadows, in approximately the same spot as he’d appeared the time before.
Immediately the stress of the dream disappeared, along with the plot, and it was just me and him out there. We clasped each other tightly and walked arm in arm.
In my first Jubal dream, he’d been unable to tell me anything about the afterlife. In this dream, he went on and on about it, answering all my questions. Typical for a dream, I can’t remember much of it, but I’ll tell you what I remember.
I asked him if there was time where he was.
In contradiction to nearly every belief about the afterlife I’ve ever heard, he said, “Yeah!”
So I asked him if that meant that in his new life he was only about five months old, referencing about how long it’s been since he died.
He shook his head. “No, it’s not like that.”
Then I asked him if he had a body. He seemed very corporeal in the dream.
His answer is a bit jumbled in my memory, but it was something like, “Sort of … I have a mind, I know facts, I have memories, and I can do stuff. But it’s different than you think.”
Anyway, it went on and on but I don’t remember much else.
Just before I woke up, as we were parting, we gave each other a quick kiss (I can still feel the very tactile sensation of his moustache).
Then I said, “You know, our friendship has gotten a lot gayer since you died.”
And we both started laughing until I woke up.
I pick up a copy of Entertainment Weekly and there is a big article about a murder that my friends and I supposedly committed when we were young teenagers. In the dream, I had repressed the memory, so the article was new to me. It was really in-depth, went into all of our childhoods. It said my mom was a “Lebanese Gardener” and mentioned that one of my teachers wrote me up as “neurologically damaged” in elementary school. The other friends involved were SH, DJ and TM. The guy we supposedly killed was a local troublemaker who exposed himself in public and killed and mutilated animals. One piece of evidence used against us was a song we recorded on a tape deck. I was the writer. The author of the article quotes a lyric – “I’ll drink a pint of his blood and toast to his name” – and says he prefers that one line to all the songs on today’s pop charts combined. Apparently I had backed out of the crime at the last minute. TM went down for the deed but we all got off pretty light, partly because of the guy’s reputation. That was the dream.
I dreamt that these two motorcyclists had a bad crash outside in the woods outside of Fort Bragg. They went off the road and ended up on a muddy riverbank. As the lay there, badly injured, they saw these faeries that came out of the river. The faeries were making fun of them, playing with them, and changing shape into various human celebrities whom they were mocking. They said that the only human in history they admired was Julius Caesar. The bikers ended up surviving to tell the tale. BS and I heard the story and went down to the site to look for evidence that the Caesar-loving river-faeries were reality and not just hallucinations. End dream.
I had a dream last night that I found the body of an old Chinese man on the street. From another perspective, he was a gnarled piece of bleached driftwood. You know how dreams are.
I picked him up and started carrying him.
I wandered around until I found a covered bridge. Inside the bridge there was a railroad track and I had to be careful not to get caught between the trestles. A group of Chinese people came out of the shadows and thanked me for bringing the man/driftwood to them.
I set him down and then I watched them push all the trestles together until the bridge had a solid floor. They thanked me again and told me I could leave. I started to leave but stole a glance behind me. The corpse/man had turned into a golden cup and light was pouring out of it.
I had a dream I was hanging out with my songwriting hero, Billy Joe Shaver (whom I’ve met a couple of times in real life).
In the dream, a cop asked for our IDs and I said something like, “Why do you need an ID to know that I’m me?” Billy Joe found that very funny, which made me proud. Then I asked him about songwriting, what the secret was, and he said, “You don’t need booze or a bump of cocaine or any of that shit. You just need to find it – that light, that unborn appetite.”
I had a dream that I was in a room on the top story of a beach hotel with BS and some other people. They had all come back from a different timeline where this evil tyrant had arrived with an army and imprisoned everyone and harvested the happiness chemicals from their brains. BS had a little machine that could test your happiness levels; you put it in your mouth and bit down.
I was testing mine when she ran to the window and shouted. We all looked out and there were hundreds of black ships fast approaching the beach. She was like, “He’s here.” The machine in my mouth started beeping crazily, indicating that I had a high happiness count (I was on molly). BS and the other reassured me that they’d been through this before and that the first two weeks were the worst. I was unable to get them to explain why, or what happens after the first two weeks.
Meanwhile we could hear the soldiers in the lower levels of the hotel; the invasion had begun. BS and the other said, “We’ve done this before and we know how to survive; we’re going to go down but you stay here and hide.” Meanwhile the happiness tester was still beeping crazily and BS threw it under a pile of laundry. They went downstairs and I was alone for a moment before the soldiers burst in.
One of them told me to come with them and I said, “I have to pee first.” He said, “I wouldn’t do that.” I went into the bathroom anyway and the door was immediately broken down by a large naked man who grabbed me and threatened to sexually assault me if I ever disobeyed a direct order again. At that point I realized how serious the situation was.
I went downstairs with the soldiers. We made it to the ground floor, which had no walls and just opened up to the beach. The scene was total pandemonium; everybody was making a break for it because they had cages set up. I scanned the crowd and saw BS running and I ran after her. I caught up to her and we grabbed hands. At this point I thought to myself, “Where’s Marlowe?” (our dog) and realized that I was dreaming because we wouldn’t run without him. I woke up.
I dreamt a song called “Man Maketh the Hatchet to Sing.”
I dreamt there was this owl and this mouse, and every day, all day long, the owl sat on a branch and watched the mouse and got ready to swoop down on it. And every time it swooped, the mouse would scurry into its hole too quick for the owl to catch it. And this happened every day until the owl and mouse became friends and would chat amiably, passing the time of day, before the swoop.
I dreamt that I visited GB in the other world, where has lived since his death. He was living in a city in a small apartment, cluttered with the kinds of things he loved: musical instruments, books, art, et cetera. He was happy, and well aware that he was no longer among the living. He said he actually kept an eye on us in this world by watching us on TV! There was another person there, perhaps some kind of angel, who said there are several levels to the afterlife, the final one being where God is. He asked GB if he wanted to move on, but he said he was happy for the moment. He played me a new song he was working on. He was exactly the same.
In the backyard of my childhood home in Fort Bragg, hanging out with a bunch of people. This guy comes through the back gate with some bizarre proposition to duel someone. KB is going to take him up on the offer when I see the guy has a knife and I convince KB not to do it. Then I head back into the house where the guy assaults me. I grab a knife and we have an extremely violent knife-fight. When I finally kill him, it turns out he had spent the last year sort of becoming me, so that I would be framed for my own murder.
At some point, in one of my dreams last night, somebody said, “Build a small house, and it will be made great; build a great house and it will be made small.”
There was also another dream where I was with my brothers and my sister-in-law and we went to some kind of water-park/gym and they had coat hangers made from the bones of Cus D’Amato.