Dream of: 21 June 2009 "Hatred"

My pet Dalmatian Picasso and a second dog were walking with me along Franklin Avenue near 17th Street in Portsmouth. Seeing several other dogs, including two large black ones, running around the area, I surmised the police must not bother about loose dogs in the area. Automobile traffic was heavy and I anticipated some of the dogs might be hit by a passing car.

Several girls were walking in the area and I chanced to meet one (around 15 years old). After she and I walked together into a house, sat down in the front room and began talking, a fellow with long black hair and a beard (around 20 years old) who looked exactly like my old friend Steve Weinstein walked into the room and lay down on the floor.

A second fellow (also around 20 years old) dressed in a long black trench coat walked into the room. He had a prosperous air about him and he reminded me of someone I knew, but I couldn't quite place who. When he said something about the fellow lying on the floor being a Jew, I told him that I could tell the fellow was a Jew simply by looking at him. The second fellow was obviously high on something. He said something about mescaline, then walked out of the room. I quickly thought he might be able to obtain some mescaline for me, and I asked the fellow lying on the floor if he could please go out and see if the second fellow could do so. He stood up and walked out to talk with the second fellow. After a moment he returned to me and told me the fellow couldn't obtain any mescaline right then.

Disappointed, I stood up and walked outside. I could see Picasso almost a block away in an alley on the other side of the street. Afraid he might get lost, I walked toward him. On the way, I walked through a door which I thought led to the alley. Instead, I ended up in someone's house. A woman in the house look startled when she saw me, and I immediately turned around and walked back out.

I reached the alley and looked around, but I couldn't see Picasso anywhere. Worried, I looked and looked, until I finally simply sat down in a chair. I didn't know what I was going to do.

Unexpectedly, my mother (probably only in her late 20s) walked up. I was angry at her because I thought she had somehow prevented my putting an ad in the paper to find Picasso. The ad would have cost $64. Now I would probably never find Picasso, or I would have to pay a lot more money to find him. I looked at her and said, "I hate you."

I was so angry at her because she had interfered with my finding Picasso.

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