While I was staying at my daughter’s place in California, I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote down this dream.

July 12, 2024

I had such a dream.

In the dream, I owned a huge, rambling, falling down house, though some of the rooms were still good. A woman in her forties of North African or mixed-race descent—with light brown skin and beautiful curly black hair—came to the door with her teen-aged daughter. A group of other women and girls, all in long dresses, were with her. She explained to me that they could fix up my house, and I invited them in.

Room by room, they created a series of magical spaces full of color, filled with marvelously compelling furniture and objects, and cloths draped everywhere, each one unique. I went looking for my own room, and I found it, spacious, airy, comfortable, elegant. Oddly, I realized that the room was an illusion, even in the dream, but I loved it anyway. Next to it was Tom’s room, his piano in the middle of it. I knew he would be pleased.

I walked through room after room until I came to the end of the house. Through the window of the last room I could see a jumble of metal stairs and incomplete infrastructure, piled up, all in ruins. I realized it was part of my old house.

I set out to look for my own room again, but it wasn’t there. Instead I found a sort of throne room where all the women were sitting. When I entered, the head woman approached me, drew two longish sticks from a pot, and gave them to me. They were tipped with large cannabis buds.

I was happy but still looking for my room when I woke up. The place was vivid in my mind, rich and magical like Arabia of old or India of pre-colonial days.

I’m still feeling happy.

A few days after the dream, I had my best birthday ever, filled with family, friends, and food.

A few days after my birthday, Joe Biden stepped down, and Kamala Harris stepped up.

I hope dreams come true.