Walking back home from doing a little banking a few minutes ago, I passed by one of the several construction projects in my neighborhood and realized it’s been awhile since I shared a shot of this with you. So, whipping out the cameraphone, I snapped this photo of the new hotel going up at the corner of Soledad and Houston Streets.
…from the service courtyard just outside my bedroom windows woke me from a four-hour sleep and are keeping me awake.
Yes, I’m expecting (hoping for) some serious nap-time later today.
No, this does not make Roscoe particularly happy.
Last night’s sleep was rough: the GD sinuses kept waking me. But they never kept me up for long. One good thing about the sleep was that it was dream-filled. Though there were others during the night, the only dream I can remember in detail is the last one: the one that ended as I finally woke for good.
This dream was set in the Morris Hotel, where I live. Many of the folks I saw and with whom I talked in this dream are familiar to me, they’re my neighbors or staff who work here.
As it opened, the dream found me waking to construction noises coming from somewhere in the hotel. This is a common occurrence in real life, by the way. Ongoing renovation of this hotel, sometimes on a pretty large scale, is a fact of life which those of us living here have come to accept.
Rising from bed, I noticed that there was a lot of commotion out on the back patio. After bathing quickly and throwing on some clothes, I went out there to investigate. What I found was rows upon rows of framed paintings: paintings of all sizes and types. And there were several long tables loaded with boxes and stacks of books, most of them art books.
“You’re going to love this, Roscoe,” one of my neighbors standing out there told me. “There are over 5,000 pieces here!”
Looking up, I saw that more objects were being lowered by boom from one of the upper-story windows.
“How the blazes was he able to fit all this in his apartment in the first place?” I asked.
The guy I was talking to just shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” he said, “he did have a pretty big suite of rooms up there.”
I never did learn, in the dream, whether the art collector upstairs was moving out, and this was just a staging area for his stuff; or if he’d died, and his collection was being prepared for storage elsewhere; or if he was just in a “sharing mood” and had decided to give all this away. To us, his neighbors. I wanted to find out, but I woke up before I could ask about that.
A simple man sharing his dreams (when appropriate), random thoughts, events of his day, etc.
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