Mar. 30th, 2016

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New York, Manhattan or Brooklyn.

But changed: the future, a place for visiting even if some lived there, like Rome.

The streets were all a park, no cars no roads, a single mazelike jogging path among ancient skyscrapers no one entered or cared about. Though they were in perfect condition: new, '20s-'40s.

I was there alone but near some not. They were tall, important. Jobs something among money but not for money's sake. From a place like California, where one sensed the new New York of this world was.

They were confident but slightly reverent, speaking low of sights seen or about to be seen that they'd heard all about but never visited or quite believed were possible. Or quite cared about, in other contexts - this was how one was when one was here, the awe one was supposed to put on in a Rome or Jerusalem or Disneyworld one got to soon leave. They were in suits modified for jogging that fit this priestlike committed pretense to solemnity - were runners. An Asian woman was one of them, the shortest by far. The rest one sensed were Jewish. Far from faith, hair curled just a bit too much for a yarmulke to not slip slowly off.

One spoke the most, the deepest voice, face something like Justin Trudeau's. They and I turned a corner where the sand running path rippled slightly for show among low trees in East-edge-of-Park lighting. The Asian woman smiled and ran ahead, Trudeau intoned just above a whisper: "the ________ _______" - whatever the place name was. No words for it in the dream, just the tones of one two-parted. He stopped with a tall friend or two to play-act a reverence half-felt but not touching their ease, then all loped easily past me and caught up with her at the next corner. That first turn had been right, now they disappeared left.

It was unclear what the proportion of trees to lampposts was, so like one another they'd been chosen to be.

The segment past the corner was all graveyard. Graves the same size, frequency, and "feeling" as the trees or lamps, emerging from them naturally, perhaps gradually. Shorter than the trees but still fairly tall, perhaps five feet, and about the width of people.

I didn't catch Trudeau labelling it but he had. One of those with him, not one of his close friends but tall like them, had stopped while the rest had turned corner and gone. I hung back to see.

His face was Eastern European but seemed gentile. He was lit from above such that his face almost glowed except a thin visor in shadow - a deep-set third fourth of Europe style glower. Life sentenced to glower despite whatever was felt.

He wasn't communing with a grave but with all of them. Something not quite visible about the mass of them, some spirit like an Easter Island statue, returned his gaze.

How was my last dreaming thought phrased? Because it was words and seemed profound.

Something about how all that he had found in it was that it had not found him, and how it felt the exact same way about him.

(My waking thought was "Kafka," because of the situation and not the unKafkan man, and of course it was, but why? What did what I knew the meaning of - intoned like fresh-Kennedyed Justin Trudeau on his first world-leaderly tour of some lost part of Paris - quite mean?)


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