After the beach, and after the pool; I laid down upstairs while the reciprocating fan and the neighbor’s industrial lawn mower and the sprinklers made me think we were back at the ocean.
In the dream, we were laying in the same bed we were really in: the same gold room, the reciprocating fan, the mirror reflecting the pineapple lamp in the mirror reflecting the photograph of us at a collapsed farmhouse.
In bed, she was next to me. We were listening to David Bowie’s Low album on her seafoam record player that was long gone. He kept singing “Sometimes you get so lonely … Sometimes you don’t know why. Be my wife. Be my wife …” and from the bed, she would lean over and put the needle back on Sound and Vision and it’d all start over again. We’d drift out of sleep inside the dream and she’d sometimes even float over to the record player and flip the entire record and it’d be Brian Eno playing a suitcase AKS synth. Warsawza.
When we woke up for real, she said, “It’s 7pm.” We’d had plans to go and walk the boardwalk near an old golden carrousel and drink beers as the super moon rose above the ocean.
I told her about my David Bowie record player dream. She said, “I dreamt that I had tickets to see Prince and the Revolution and I was calling up all my friends; Julie, Marcie, Angie, Jess, Allaina, Allie, Erin …”
I said, “And downstairs from the pool, your dad kept calling up and asking us to turn the record player louder, he couldn’t hear it well enough from his float.”
“Of course we did. And you–you’re already as tan as Americans dream.”
The super moon was coming around. The barbecue grill was cooling off after a long day. Birds I couldn’t identify were calling wildly from the berry bush.