7 Gardens To Tend To

 

 

 (NOTE: I started writing this in Morocco and finished it here in Portugal. It's interesting (to me anyway)) to see how my tone switches between countries.)

 

7 Gardens To Tend To

 

(Muladhara)

 

Firmly rooted, my root chakra

What carries me through this long strange trip

Of life

Nurtured on nectar,

I tend to My Garden

I am rewarded with a bountiful grounding

 

(Svadhisthana)

 

My sacral chakra, a hot mess of tangled vines

Born and raised on a steady diet

Of sensuality

Of sexuality

 

On a feeding schedule of desire tended

By stardust

By sunburst

By moonlight

 

A fine line of symmetry and overindulgence, this secret garden

Visited with urgent frequency

Fed to gluttony

 

For I cannot control all the beautiful weeds

That wish to plant themselves

Amongst my velvety vines

I push them out at my whim

Starve them until they wither

And die

 

Craving this garden to flourish

During moonlit walks

In the Bewitching Hour

When all my white flowers release their nocturnal essences

Disperse as they are taken by the wind          (Stevie Nicks reference)

 

A continuation of chakras, penned in Portugal:

 

(Manipura Chakra)

 

My solar plexus, a fiery landscape

Seeks coolness to pacify temperament

To fuel personal power

 

To digest

the vastness of the ocean

I swallow the horizon

To digest

the expanse of the mountains

the Serra do Carvalho collapse into my belly

transmuting the elements

I am becoming the alchemist of all my desires

 

(Anahata)

 

Sanctuary emerging

Rising from ashes of transformation

Chest expanding from a swallowed horizon

Emerging to unconditional love

Pillars of emotional strength

From the weight of collapsed mountains

 

Receiving, not consuming

Abundance of heart

As vast as the ocean

As anchoring as the mountains

 

(Vishuddha)

 

I ready myself to speak to the world

A saudade of expression birthing

Truths of my long strange odyssey emerging from my mouth

Every word a blue azulejo

Forms a mosaic

My story of existence

 

I learn to sing my own fado

Unapologetically

Someone, anyone, no one chooses to listen

My speech directed to the ocean, to the mountains, to the sun

Especially to the moon

During the Bewitching Hour

That is privy to my desires

 

My throat is parched

For this chakra is still wild

Untethered

Pieces of the mosaic yet to be discovered to completeness

 

(Ajna)

 

Just as the Farol da Barra searches

Searching for completeness requires inner wisdom

The blueprint of the long strange odyssey,

Etched into my forehead, wisdom

 

I am my own cartographer that I seek

I map the terrain of my soul

Every horizon swallowed

Every mountain collapsed

I am the lighthouse

 

(Sahasrara)

 

Have I reached the apex?

No

I, cartographer, will step off the edge of the vellum

Map burning

Seeking out the light-ness

All will be released into nothingness

 

The lighthouse will shine

Silent sounds of the roar of the ocean

Silent sounds of the static of the mountains

Sovereign

 

Seven gardens will dissipate into the vast unknown

Intervals of Grace

This evening's apocalyptic sunset

 

 

In the Bewitching Hour, 2:37 am

Something woke me up. I stepped out onto the lanai to ask the waxing gibbous moon why. The moon is red, yet it is not a red moon. The haunting beauty of a smoke-dyed crimson moon is a heavy sight. Local fires in the surrounding area make for beautiful sunsets and moon rises, unfortunately. The air holds a quiet contradiction.

 

But the moon isn’t giving up her secrets in this Hour. I’m content to just gaze into the void and feel the comfort of the cool air surround me after a sun-baked day. The Farol da Barra in the distance rotates, its light flashing across the horizon in steady rhythm. It too searches.

 

I’m watching a silent conversation between two beacons of light. I ponder that in such a seemingly heavy world the only response is to sit still and observe with graciousness. So, this has me thinking; one beacon warns of fires spread out across Portugal, and the other beacon guides mariners safely home.

 

No questions are answered, only a luminous reminder that grace exists in quiet intervals of a burning world.

 

   

Affairs of the cosmos; an intimate theft

Dedicated to the upcoming solar eclipse on 12 August, 2026

 

Furnace of gold is he

The moon, she

Shadowy silhouettes

They gaze at each other

They are still so far

Away

Trajectories never permitted to touch

Except for this single stolen hour

 

Her luminous body slowly pressing against his blinding heat

A celestial embrace

A collision of desire

Late-afternoon of delight-

Full vibrant resinous amber hues

Alchemy of sharing secrets in the darkness

eARTh shivers

two celestial deities lose themselves in one another

 

suspended above the sea,

their union peaks

mortals look closely

she is a halo of pure white fire

a lifetime of waiting releases

sun and moon alchemize into unified twilight

 

cosmic law, though, dictates

their union cannot last

all mankind should heave a collective grateful sigh of relief

she makes the first move

her dark form sliding away

from his golden warmth

 

a broken embrace

a horizon bruises

crushed violets and crimson rose petals scatter

across the skyline

the sun, alone, sinks into the Atlantic

sulking

aching

the touch of his fleeting lover

he carries within his rays

 

the moon?

Again, she slips between eARTh and her lover

Only to move on

To separate again        `

 

She

A phantom receding into the void

He

Will burn through a thousand lonely dawns

Seeking out her silhouette on the tide

Until they again find their rhythm

 

Another cycle of stolen theft...

 

NOTE: if you’re going to watch the event, make sure you have your ISO 12312-2 certified solar eclipse glasses to protect your eyes. if you're in Portugal, you can get a pair here:

 

https://clubdavisao.pt/campanha/eclipse2026

 

 

Separation—

  

Separation—

 

Circumstance builds the wall

without consent,

a cold monument built by fate.

Is time punishing, or is it not?

The past? The now? It grows

each day remaining separated.

 

I endeavor to cloak the wall with night-blooming jasmine

so I can smell a distant shadow

deep into the Bewitching Hour,

when the wall doesn’t seem so imposing,

when communication flows without restraint,

when unbound lust blossoms, wafting beyond confinement,

lost in a ghostly embrace

behind the wall.

Louredo and the Mondego River Runs Through It

 

Pre-run dip in the Mondego River

One of my favorite secret spots

My run today from Louredo to Penacova along the Mondego riverfront trail 

Back in Portugal and back to my go-to favorite places along the Mondego River. Following the river from Louredo as it carves a path through the landscape, I felt like I was (slowly) moving through a living canvas. The river was so calm— to the point of drowsy— such as I was (thank you for that, Solo_Ojo). 

Getting closer to Penacova, the valley became narrower and steeper. The scent of eucalyptus permeated the air while the hot summer sun baked me. The sound of cicadas was my background music.

This past spring I biked some of this route, but running it made it seem like a fresh experience.  Once I spotted the white houses clinging to the side of the valley walls, I knew Penacova, up above, was within reach, so I turned around and trotted (yes, a very slow cadence...) back to Louredo.

 After a slow drive back north a bit, I finished off the day at Barra in Garfanha da Nazare for sunset. Today was just the type of day that I didn't even know I needed. 

ReallyDirtyPoetry.Series:17.July.2026

 I'm resurrecting my 'Really Dirty Poetry' series from twenty years ago. Inspired by my archaeological work in the field, I would write poetry out on various job sites— either while monitoring large machinery, doing data recovery, or during down-time moments of surveying and mapping. So, yes, it was a dirty, dirty job, and I documented it the best I could. 

Fast-forward 20 years, I'm revisiting these older works and updating the series to include for my dirty, dirty time cycling and running here in the mid-Atlas Mountains. 

 

 ReallyDirtyPoetrySeries:17.July.2026

 

  

She ran and ran and ran until she broke.

The semester clung like dust to salt-slick skin,
driven out by her Hoka One Ones that bite the mud.
A heavy heave, a spiritual vomit from within,
painting trail grime against her rushing blood.

 

Dry mid-Atlas sun baked the barren waste,

Dust coated her swallowing throat,
coughing up deadlines, meetings, lesson plans…gasping for the heat.
Shedding every lecture, every grade until there is no more—
just the filthy, beautiful rhythm of the trail.

 

Left stripped naked before her own wild heart,

Nothing left to carry, nowhere left to fail.

The Rolling Stones: Foreign Tongues album; my review

Foreign Tongues: 

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLRqbVy5wTt3c

 

Rocking into the midnight hour, staring up at the ceiling or out into the darkness of the moonless night, vices in check, I just listened to every song on the album. Now, I'm ready to go through it again and give commentary.

 

I've followed the Stones all my life. I know what I like. I know what I like with my whiskey. I know what I like in a man. I know what I like with the Stones.  Rarely do I falter...

My first listening, excluding the songs I've already heard countless times before the album's release today (In the Stars, Rough & Twisted, &, more recently, Jealous Lover), I had already detected elements of their 'Emotional Rescue' era — 1980 to be exact. 

In 1980, I was just finishing my 'wonder years' in southern California and in high school. Life revolved around the beach, mostly. It was a time of experimentation into seeing who I would eventually become and from which influences that resonated. 

 So, here we go:

 

Rough & Twisted

This single has been out for a few months now. Blues inspired, Stones are at their best. It's fucking smooth, and it puts me in the mood to just groove while lying on my bed staring into space just soaking up the atmosphere. Lights are dimmed while everything else remains turned on.

In the Stars

Epic Stones. This single was also released months ago, and I still can't get enough of it. I know this song so intimately for this chapter of my life that I can safely say, Yes, I fucking do 'want to dance til the roof caves in'. After all, it's in the stars, baby. It's akin to a life anthem; relaxation, enjoyment, freedom. Sign me up- permanently. 

Jealous Lover

Beast of Burden vibes here. But, I hate the song, lyrics. I, unfortunately, first listened to this track watching the video on YouTube, and I'll never be able to dis-associate the video from the song. The video was just garbage, IMHO. 

Mr. Charm

A fast recovery from the distaste of 'Jealous Lover', 'Mr. Charm' returns to rock & roll I expect from the Stones. 

Divine Intervention

"Respectable' (Some Girls album) vibes for sure. Blues-y Stones swagger. 

Ringing Hollow

Country honky-tonk goodness. Jagger is falling out of love with America in this song. I understand its complexity. Get beyond the political message and just lay back on your bed and listen to it with pure intentions. 

Never Want to Lose You

Banging dance groove. Lyrics...are just alright. 

Hit Me in the Head

Punk-y stones. Charlie Watts on drums (RIP). 1972 guitar riffs. Lots of adrenaline 

You Know I'm No Good

Amy Winehouse tribute. I'm feeling gritty dirty blues and the harmonica... 

Some Of Us

Keith Richards vocals. Deeply emotional and just a sweet ballad. Richard's voice... makes way for a reflective mood. Lying on my bed in the dark, my eyes closed, this felt monumental. Reflections on the passage of time; this IS the Stones. Yes, Keith, 'some of us are on our knees.' The song infects you. This hit deep for me.

Covered In You

 Sleazy-blues with a contemporary flair. I'm getting 'miss you' vibes and it's S E X Y as hell. Pure Sticky Fingers and Exile on Main Street eras. A fucking banger of an ear-gasm for me. I could play this on repeat in the right circumstances with the right person.

Side Effects

Meh. A little too 'angst-y' of a song is my first (and second) impression. This is the song I would get up from my bed to go pour myself another glass of wine.

Back In Your Life

Another beautiful ballad. Stones ballads are not appreciated enough. Classic Jagger. Fucking adore this track. I want this in my life; 'is this how our story will end'. Put on repeat — under the right circumstances. I get high off listening to this track. It just hits differently, reflectively. I mean, I ADORE this track. The boys are pouring their hearts out here.

Beautiful Delilah

The album's closing track, Chuck Berry and rhythm and blues. Full circle Stones. Bravo.  

 

It's nearly the Bewitching Hour, and I am fully satiated.  As Bonnie Raitt and Johnny Lee Hooker said, "I'm in the Mood...". 

 

29 June, 2026 Internal Cartography Series 33° 31' 58.8" N, 5° 6' 0" W

  29 June, 2026 Internal Cartography Series 33° 31' 58.8" N, 5° 6' 0" W

 Composed while pondering tonight's full moon, biding my time before the Morocco - Netherlands World Cup game starts at 2 am here in the mid-Atlas Mountains.      

 

A full moon sails through the sky,

Charting its path in silence.

Which cartographer will chart my map?

Who will trace the headwaters of my river ­—

Its deep primal pulse?

Who will climb my peaks,

And sink into the guarded depths of my chasms?

Who is patient enough to map this breathing land?

Who is willing to explore my hinterland?

By what name will you claim my terrain?

 

I say to you, cartographer:

Do not rush the landscape or demand immediate answers.

Do not fear the dark heavy heat of my depths.

If you pursue the source of my rushing rivers,

Do not hack through the dense overgrowth.

Let it yield under a slow patient hand.

 

My terrain has been trodden by ancient myths.

My realm is a beautiful weight of ancient earth

And cosmic patience.

My scarred terrain whispers stories

Like ancient petroglyphs.

 

Look up: the full moon circles back tonight,

Closing its quiet arc above the wild.

What if you choose not to return to your land,

And instead, inhabit mine?

 

Map slips from your fingers, useless now.

Ink cannot hold the heat of this earth.

 

What will you do now that you are standing at the edge of the wild,

With no landmarks left to guide you?

 

 

Atlas Lions Fever

 

 

 

 

World Cup season is upon us, and it’s always something I manage to forget about up until it’s happening again. And then the fever sets in: staying up all night catching all the matches at friend’s houses, heading to the local watering holes to cheer along with other patrons, etc.

Having spent 2 decades in the MENAT (Middle East, North Africa, Turkey), these World Cup experiences each have lasting memories. What do I remember the most?

·      White plastic chairs spilling out onto overcrowded streets facing giant projectors

·      The smell of shisha & cigarettes

·      Hot sweaty nights interrupted only by the sound of electric fans blowing useless breezes in rhythmic cadence

·      Fireworks, horns, chants, dancing in the streets with flags

·      How fierce national rivalries dissolve into regional united regional cheers as a team plays further up the tournament ladder

·      University camaraderie with students and professors watching matches together underneath starry skies on campus

This 2026 season I’m living/working in Morocco, so it is especially exciting as the Atlas Lions are on the rise. I’m noticing that within the A-L groupings that many of the not-as-well-known teams are under-represented- in terms of predictions about matches… As a result, there have been some interesting unexpected draws (Spain/Cap Verde, Portugal/DR Congo, Iran/New Zealand and even Morocco/Brazil). There is this wave of lower-ranked nations upsetting the tournament giants, and I’m here for it.  There is a beauty in this chaos that is equal to the tension.

I think many sports fans supporting the traditional giants are suddenly understanding the significance of AFCON (Africa Cup of Nations). So, this feels especially relevant to be here right now because I feel I’m located in the epicenter of this giant shifting awareness.

In my ideal bracket, I’d like to see Morocco and Portugal in the finals; AFCON grit vs European elite. Obviously, the 2022 quarter-finals between the two teams is still fresh in everyone’s memories. Watching this game on 19 July here in Morocco and then stepping into an airplane on 20 July to Portugal… this would be epic!

Option number 2, for different reasons- both cultural and political, I’d like to see Morocco vs Iran in the finals. Really, though, I’d like to see two MENAT teams compete in the finals. Why? Perhaps I’m naïve, but the reality on the ground of many AFCON nations consists of vague terrain (dirt lots or packed clay fields), improvised gear, or no gear at all (barefoot).

It’s 9 am and I’m lying in bed still riding the high of the Atlas Lions’ victory against Scotland last night – as well as the Brazil win over Haiti. Thus far, I’ve resisted watching many of the ‘giants’ but it’s time to start seeing what England is doing, etc. Tonight, we’re heading to the local watering hole, so I think I’ll focus on the Ivory Coast/Germany game that will be playing; another opportunity to test out the AFCON grit test the old guard.

Mid-Atlas Late Afternoon Thunderstorm Interrupted

  

 

 

From heavy heat to a cooling downpour,

thunder rumbling

 like the sudden sharp intake of breath

 before skin meets skin.

 

And just like that,

it’s over

just as it was getting started.

 

Heavy heat cloaks tense atmosphere.

Humidity thick, suffocating.

Somewhere a disappointed lover lies back

in damp silence.

Sticky skin.

 

Shivering in the heat of an empty sweat,

desperate for the flood that never came.

Phantom fingers tracing the damp heat,

left burning for a flood that never fell.

 

In time, a cool breeze settles,

cooling the skin yet clearing nothing. 

 

 

Exodus: Anthology of Romances

  

I’ve never really thought much about moving to a country, setting up my life, living my life, and then exiting that life for another one. I would further say that this feels very comfortable for me. I enjoy the challenge. I dare say I’m addicted to this ‘feeling’. There is such beauty in letting go.

Think about the stages of falling in love; it’s a long process and quite addictive. Falling out of love, again, a long process. Addictive? In a sense, yes. I mean to say, that the feelings resulting…they are nothing short of brilliant for artistic endeavors; writing, painting, etc. Staying in love… that’s the challenge, right? Is this why I run away?What do people write about when they are in love? 

So, I consider countries/working situations for the past 20 years as a sort of relationship, each one. I’ve written about this before, and it’s a constant consideration in my mind. For example, Istanbul was this boyfriend that I was addicted to- even though I knew ‘he’ wasn’t right for me. Istanbul was like what I (naively, I’m sure) think heroin is like. It was extremely difficult to leave, but I did — although it’s always in the back of my mind… New York City was a similar feeling; it was super exciting, but I knew that relationship would never last. It was an epic summer fling. Rarely do I think about NYC. But that’s okay. 

If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with... Each country mirrors a passionate volatile lover. Infatuation turns into daily living turns into departure. Each departure, although exciting, increasingly becomes more and more difficult, though. Perhaps that’s not the right word choice, difficult. Maybe now, though, it’s that I’m remaining behind. I’m the lover that is being left behind. Of course, I know I will also leave this lover but not just yet…

Being an ‘outsider’ is never my worry, honestly. Or, it is never the reason to leave; this is more appropriate to describe each exodus. Each country is an unpredictable partner, and I think I’ve adapted to this frame of mind. After all, each country I’ve moved to has been about work. I’ve excelled at building family, work relationships, communities, and then exiting them. There is this lingering love connection with each intimate connection I make, and meeting up with these family members in other countries is the logical trajectory. Lovers reuniting. This is what we always tell each other- when we are leaving; the aftermath of the break-up. I’m already dreaming of returning to Turkey next winter. It’s been too long since I’ve connected with that lover.

Because I am a person who likes seeing patterns in things, I think about the inevitable break-up with my current country. Is Portugal going to break the pattern, the chain, for me? I fell in love with Portugal years ago. Portugal, though, I am realizing is not a lover. It’s a partner. Portugal has always been something separate. It’s just always been a stable relationship that I could always count on. So how does Portugal fit into my patterned existence? I’m not sure yet, but I kind of like the idea of staying in love there. Or, I think I’m up for the challenge.

Am I finally shifting from a series of torrid romances to a foundational partnership? I wonder. Is Morocco going to be my last goodbye love letter, my last exodus?

10 June, 2026 Internal Cartography Series 33° 31' 58.8" N, 5° 6' 0" W

  

It’s not what I say,

It’s what I’ve left unsaid.

 

It’s not what I write,

It’s what I’ve left unwritten.

 

I am an open book,

With a hidden language.

 

That which you cannot hear nor read,

Unless you are free.

 

Liberation flows from within

My root chakra.

 

I am free

Great Works of Literature are Capable of Temporarily Destroying Me Emotionally

  

Recently, in Portugal, I fell in love with a man.

His name? Nathanial Hawthorne, and he is 224 years old.

 

What do I adore about him?

His ability to absolutely fuck up my afternoons using only words.

 

We have unfinished chapters, him and I.

Although we’ve only just met, I anticipate quickly returning to him next month —

Where I left him, lying on the couch.

 

There, he can finish me off.

Seduce me with his weight of sinful guilt, his cruelty of isolation, his failed utopian ideals.

For him, there is no easy redemption; for me, devastation.

 

He is under my skin. Right now.

A haunting by the ghost of a man who likely dooms every soul that dare to read his works.

The ink from his pen slowly poisoning.

Soon, his centuries-old grief will ruin me completely.

 

How haunting it will be, to be so exquisitely undone.

Coming Home to Whose Moon?

Whose moon have I been keeping company with?

 

I am being swept off my feet,

 30,000' in the air

 

Two traveling entities

 sailing across the nighttime sky

 on different trajectories:  

Myself west to east - ocean to the mountains. 

The moon orbiting- sailing atop its celestial highway

 

Entwined in a personal dance with orbital mechanics,

 it feels as though we are moving as one,

yet we are spinning further apart

from each other 

 

Looking down from the window, 

village lights shimmer; a scattering of humanity

in contrast to the dark void of uninhabited lands —

a lonely mid-air Moonlight Mile

 

A road made of reflection, 

leading right back to somewhere I'm supposed to be.

 

I don't know.

 

The engines push me forward. 

 

The ocean has long faded in the distance, left behind 

as I am being propelled towards the mountains.

 

Standing on solid eARth in the Bewitching Hour,

I again seek out the moon's company.

 

But I have to wonder:

Is this the same moon I've been sharing the sky with?

 

Or has it changed,

It is growing heavy and full.

 

Perhaps tonight's rare Blue Moon will divulge 

if its light still touches your shore

while it illuminates my mountain peaks. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once Upon a Time-Machine: Dreaming in hypnopompic imagery

 Once upon a time machine: Dreaming in hypnopompic imagery

Praia da Vagueira

                                   
 

 Awakening at 10:00 am, for the second day in a row, I lay in bed for a few smug moments soaking up the totality of the situation. When I start waking up at 10:00 am, I know vacation is soon over...

Well, that's what 10:00 am means in this current life iteration. In a past chapter, far far away across the furthest reaches of the Pacific Ocean, waking up at 10:00 am meant different things due to different situations. Those were enjoyable times, for sure. 

Back to current reality, I'm slowly, quietly working out the day ahead: eat that luscious mango in the refrigerator with some Greek yogurt and fresh blueberries,perhaps even drizzle some organic honey on top; go into the garage and tool around with my bicycle; get the sewing machine fired up and put new elastic around my favorite bikini bottoms that I've had for about 20 years. Of course I have a plethora of bikinis — as anyone from Hawaii amasses because it's the most important piece of clothing to wear — but this bottom is my absolute favorite. 

The backstory of this bikini bottom: My boyfriend and I were on the mainland (San Francisco). We had just finished traversing the U.S. from San Fran to the Midwest and back. It was an epic odyssey— as they all were. We were back in San Francisco and had to return the van we were traveling in. We rented it and took out the back seats and put a futon bed in it and just drove... Anyway, we were somewhere in the Outer Sunset (district) and getting coffee early on the last morning, and a surf shop was next door. We walked in, of course, and there I saw them: exquisite. If you don't know #AaronChang, he is a famous surf photographer. I didn't know he had a surf clothing line as well.  This bikini bottom (no top) was the most beautiful fabric I had seen (well, that can't honestly be confirmed being that it is a major weakness of mine, fabric). I knew that it would be mine, even considering it was the last day of our travels and we had to head back to Hawaii nearly penniless. However, living in Hawaii, one is always in search of the bikini that no one else has. To add to its potential lure, I could tell that I would be able to surf and the bottoms wouldn't fall down when falling off a board (quite common, honestly). I think Ed went back into the coffee-shop, but I stayed... I coveted. I purchased. Back to the Islands we went. Now, all my bikinis are spread around the globe in my belongings — waiting for a permanent place to belong, but this one stays with me always.  

Back to the dream-machine...which is the point of this communique...which has nothing to do with bikinis, although Freud might think differently...

For two days in a row now, I've slept in until 10:00 am. Friday night was a late night out/early morning arrival home (however you want to analyze that one), and last night was just an innate desire to sleep for 12 hours. The second happens less frequently than the first..., so whenever the feeling arises, I just go with it. Somehow, somewhere tucked into those 12 hours I had a very strange dream. I mean, I guess all dreams are strange. I usually don't remember my dreams, so I started piecing this one back together. The gist:

I met a strange man while in a strange land. There was an empty old-style apartment (mine?). I think it was only a room- bedroom. It seems it was a recent possession. It had a cathedral ceiling, chipped paint/plaster, and a rustic smell. It was bright, though. After some time (?) I returned to it only to find four women occupying it. I told them they should leave because it was mine. They looked scared or lost- not knowing what to do or where to go. I apologized and said they should take their time leaving. I told some people the story- I think they were my family, for sure my sister as I remember explaining the room to her. The man I had met showed up to where I was staying (with my family?). Then I was on a subway and got off somewhere I'd traveled to before- Romania with Ed? (a different Ed, Istanbul Ed)). I recognized that it was somewhere I had visited before, but not the part of the city (Cluj Napoca) where I had been staying. I only accidentally had walked there (in real life), so the dream revisited this brief place, but I immediately recognized it in my dream. I met up with the strange man again. We kissed. I saw the strange man again in a field with 2 other men. One was bald and seemed to be his bodyguard. As I observed them from a distance I thought, "Who is this strange man? Why does he need a bodyguard? Why are they speaking in hushed tones? The sun is beating down on them. How does this connect to a (my?) empty room- which has nothing in it but a bed?" Then, I was somewhere outside and saw a pink Cadillac roll up. It parks in a field across from where I'm observing them. The chauffeur (of course) gets out. The strange man is still there as well. They are all standing/talking. The strange man gets in the pink Cadillac. As the chauffeur drives off, a dust cloud enshrouds the Cadillac- but not before our eyes briefly focus on each other. I smile to myself and walk away.

What would Freud do? That's too loaded of a question. How do I interpret this? Here goes: The room was something from my past? The observation that there was only a bed in the room- no need to unpack that one... The 4 women in the room with only a bed; all remnants of a (my) past life chapters- earlier versions of myself or more likely ones that still present themselves in various encounters? The Romania part; that's a deep memory. The subway makes sense; deep underground processing of thoughts. The strange man? I think he must have owned a carnival. The pink Cadillac certainly fits nicely with the carnival imagery. The whispering men; likely the masculine qualities of myself that I keep private. 

Back to reality. There was a carnival yesterday, in Vagos (or was it a religious festival... I'd like to think, in retrospect, that it was a carnival though) while coming back from Praia do Labrego. The lights were on, people were flowing throughout the venue, and the smell of roasting meat pervaded my being. I continued on, but not before catching glimpses of activity. Riding on, the brief image of that scene stayed with me for a few more miles. 

What does it all mean? Who knows. On an ending note, I couldn't resist... I asked AI what Freud would have thought of my dream... lol