Dream of:23 April 2000 "Rat Dung"
For a couple weeks I had been living in the Gay Street House, where I had been sleeping on the floor in one of the downstairs rooms.
Early in the morning, I was sitting at the computer in the neighboring room, working on buying stock. I was using a colorful program whereon green and red numbers representing prices were changing and flashing extremely quickly on a black screen. I would simply push a button and the prices would change.
I was concentrating on the company Solectron whose ticker symbol was SLR. The price of the stock was fluctuating dramatically – from the 40s to the 60s. I had tried to buy some, but was unsure I had been successful. When I saw the price of 64 pop up, I was afraid I had bought 200-300 shares of the stock at that high price. Since the price of the stock seemed to be continuing to rise toward the 70s, however, perhaps 64 wasn't a bad price.
My father walked into the room. He looked at me as if he were disgusted and he said I was going to have to start doing something. It was true that I hadn't been doing much lately. I was thinking of moving in with my mother, who was living by herself in the Logan Street House. I could move into the back bedroom and fix it up. I thought about the Tindall boys, who had lived with their mother Mrs. Tindall (mother of my old friend, Mark Tindall) over the years in Portsmouth. Living with my mother wouldn't be bad.
My father looked as if he were in his mid 40s. He left the room and walked upstairs. A woman might have been living with him – I was uncertain.
I looked into the neighboring room where I had been sleeping. My red and white plaid sheet was still lying on the floor; I should pick it up. I walked into the room. A disgusting mess of something was lying on the floor, as if something had been dug out of a rat hole. In the mess lay a couple $10 bills and a $1 bill. Two or three $5 bills were also lying there; but the $5 bills seemed to have been eaten by something and were lying in pieces. The $5 bills appeared unsalvageable.
I thought I heard my father returning, so I quickly picked up the $10 bills and the $1 bills and stuck them in my pocket.
I began cleaning up the mess; it smelled like rat dung. A man who looked somewhat like Mark Linnimon (a fellow whom I first met at the Dallas Zen Center in 1986) walked in while I was cleaning. He said, "Hello, Steven."
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