The D&D part comes from the fact that certain creatures live in certain rooms or at certain landmarks; some of these are indeed monstrous and pose real hazards that one needs to know how to get past; but the long-term residents know all the tricks and share them gladly with newcomers. So, for example, at either side of the dark room just inside the front gate where dwells an unpleasant and ill-tempered millipede who spits poison, residents leave numerous umbrellas lying about. Some of these creatures we know by their "monster" or D&D names, and some we actually know by their first names. Their hazardousness is unrelated to which name they go by: "Evan" might be a Komodo dragon far more dangerous than "the nightcrawler" who is literally a harmless annelid.
The city outside the front gate (and there appears to be only this one entrance to the whole complex) is rather like the French Quarter in New Orleans—it has the flavor and the color—but it's slightly more built-up and bustling. It's definitely the artist's quarter of some city, but it's not necessarily a real city. There are plenty of restaurants and coffee shops and galleries and music spaces nearby. In the space of this story I don't go to any of these restaurants etc., but I do reminisce and chat with friends about favorite ones I have been to in the past.
At one point I am in a courtyard, situated between buildings not too far back from the front gate, sitting at a braided steel patio table with Mom and a friend or two. I confess to Mom that my new digs and Bohemian lifestyle are very appealing. This appears not to mean that I'm partying/drinking a lot (as it almost certainly would in real life, at least when I was the sort of young man that moved into communes). No, I seem to be actually enjoying living amongst many humans in this quasi-communal way.
A group of eight or ten people wander past, seemingly on their way out of the complex, and Mom, who is no longer Mom but a peer, gets up and accosts the guy who's trailing the group. They are old friends and their one-on-one reunion instantly means that their entire group and ours must meet. There is a certain ritual to the introductions, but specifics are lost—perhaps something to do with order of introductions, or elders speaking on behalf of juniors younger than a certain age. As if to bolster my earlier claim to enjoying my new living situation, this group introduction has a feeling of unforced camaradérie to it, ritual notwithstanding.
Selah.
While making my (mapless and wholly unsure) way from entrance to living quarters, I stumble across (not for the first time) a large, oval-shaped common space that is part church auditorium and part secular performance space. It appears candle-lit because everything has a warm, amber glow. There may indeed be a stage (or altar, or both) over on the one end, but it's not in use right now; rather, the present musical performance is taking place in the center of the floor: a pianist accompanied by a couple other instruments—very much a cocktail lounge ensemble—singing songs in what would seem to be a great variety of idioms.
We (I don't know who's with me at this point but it's a "we") decide to stay and listen. The point at which we have entered the auditorium turns out to be a little balcony, like a single opera box; and it's mobile. We go for a ride all the way around the room, on unseen tracks on the walls, passing other little balconies with other little groups of listeners. Just as our balcony comes perigeal to the musicians, the pianist has embarked on a traditional Jewish tune whose numerous verses follow an eight-bar melody, sung solo then repeated by a chorus, ending with a nonsense-syllable codetta. Each verse starts slow and dirge-like and accelerates steadily to a frenetic pace by the end of the chorus part. The pianist, who is singing the solo verses, is letting individuals in the audience take turns at being "the chorus", repeating what she has just sung. On the third verse she turns to me. I try to sing the part but the song is in Hebrew or Yiddish and I haven't grasped the words she sand phonetically, so I make a mess of it; worse, because I've been concentrating on phonetics and because I have stumbled, I totally forget to sing the codetta at the end of the verse. The pianist gives me a look. I hear others in the audience say, variously, "He wants to sing" and "He can sing". The pianist then says, "It's ok, Gordon Geise, Gary Geise, Gordon Gary Geise." I ask how she knows my name and she replies, "Because you're from the future."
Selah.
I have just reentered the complex and I head directly upstairs to the second floor. (This is the first time in our story that a second floor or staircases have been introduced.) The entire front face of the complex on the second floor is a boardwalk-type setup, made to look like a colonial fort, with the front wall made of stout logs lashed together with occasional cutouts for windows. There are picnic tables set up in the open space by the front wall, and concession stands are build into the side walls. A good friend of mine owns and/or manages this whole public space, and I have come to have a look at it for the first time. He greets me happily and shows the place off, pointing out features and cool decorative details. When he has clearly completed his spiel, I congratulate him, put my arm around his torso, draw him close, and kiss him quickly and, I hope, inoffensively on the mouth. I am delighted that he doesn't seem to mind; we are obviously good and affectionate friends, but this is the first time I've kissed him like that. But he responds by putting both his arms around me and kissing me back—once, lightly and sweetly; then he narrates himself: "He kissed him once, lightly and sweetly" and kisses me again to go with the narration.
Holy shit, I think, and immediately move it into high gear: "He kissed him again, more passionately, and began to caress his body", I say, and do. He responds with, "His hand found his friend's nipple and began to play, lightly at first." Soon enough, I narrate: "He thrust his hand into his shorts and began stroking himself slowly," and indeed, my friend—who is now Anthony Branca—thrusts his hand into his frayed, unbuttoned Daisy Dukes and starts stroking his cock while I'm still kissing the hell out of his face. This bit could certainly get to the squirting stage in a big way, but for whatever reason, we have a scene change.
Sorry, Jeff.
I'm in an amusement park that is—as always in dreams—partly Clementon Lake Park but wildly elaborated upon. I suppose I've gone on some rides and had a great time at the park, but just now I have to head over to the campground where I'm staying. En route, I pass a sandlot where a horror movie I've seen before is "playing", in which two main characters are (a) playing 2-man baseball and (b) discussing the advent of the Black Something, which brings much evil. After stopping at my tent, I realize I've left something in the car, so I head back to the parking lot—which turns out to be a miasma of tightly crammed parking lots in a busy retail corner of a crowded seashore town. And I'm driving a rental and I don't remember the make, model, or color; I have only the key fob with a license plate and the possibility of making the car go BOOP or at least flash its lights. I have no success.
Because I couldn't find any photos of the Wacky Shack
I walk back toward the amusement park—this should be the simple third leg of a triangle: park to campground, campground to parking, parking to park; but instead of the park I find the ocean. I do see amusement piers with rides and whatnot; but just half an hour ago the Clementonish amusement park was decidedly not set on a boardwalk or by the ocean. I look for tall landmarks of my park but don't see any. I ask some strangers, rather daftly, whither has gone the amusement park that used to in Clementon, N.J.Nobody knows except, perhaps, the ocean, and she isn't saying.
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