apparently the only place i can't dream is bushwick. besides the association with the opening of the nas album, the elevated j-train's rhythmic metal grating did nothing for my sleeping, though i imagine at some point in those two years it became part of the backdrop. part of the backdrop like the sound of my blue eyed boy, abandoned and flaco in the 'parking' lot on the corner of b'way barking and howling in the middle of the night. growling at me even when i learned his name (misnomer) and brought him gourmet fido food - he trusted no one. and why would he? he was guarding nothing but a front for some sort of fix-it shit, but he guarded his plot of land as one would do in his canine position. the trash was his, as was the rain, the miserable pieces of metal that came in every day, and even the dudes who whistled at me like i was some fucking fantasy who might turn around and go, "oh my, me?!" so at some point i walked over to the blue-eyed boy's sitter and said, "right, has that shit ever worked for you? once in your life?"...this fucker whistling from 50 feet away, #fuckoutahere. or maybe backdrop like that time a woman rephrased the same sentiment 143 different ways to basically tell some dude it's over, O-V-A! i remember this particular fight because most of her phrases began with "you just mad 'cuz..." and i lay on my bed, shoes on, keys in hand, ready to go out and begin my errands but i thought maybe i should wait until their fighting was over. O-V-A! i didn't, so as i casually unlocked my bike i realized i had already put on my helmet on the way downstairs just in case she began throwing shit his way. they were blocking traffic, essentially, and i could not wait for them to stop saying the same shit over and over; their only mediator was a larger girl holding her friend back also saying "IT'S OVER" with the added "Let it Go" sentiment, which i had to agree with though i don't know the details of their street fight...i had to pick up film, is all i know. then there was the backdrop of the sounds of the most misssssssssserable, i mean MISERABLE! ghetto cats i've ever heard...these cats were on some Camaron de la Isla type wailing, flamenco cats, waillllling to a tuna moon, vocal chords rough from smoking so many rolled up ciggies, lamenting the last of their 9 lives maybe, or crying about their kittens they'd never get to meet. i've never heard such hardened cats, with wails worse than a hundred bagpipes, but piercing nonetheless. in three weeks i've rested in 3 different bkln neighborhoods, transitioning out of a psychotic landlord situation where i learned crazy is as irrational does, and in each new neighborhood i dream better than the first. in jay's bed i dreamed over the sound of the AC, though they bordered on nightmares, in greenpoint i dreamed about wind and the backs of heads as i lay on currant sheets in a cool, safe room, in diego's bed it was thundering and the paper curtain kept slapping against the screen and his bed was deep in the corner with boxes of negatives everywhere and props of fryd's littering the shelves and i thought for most of the night there was someone waiting to come in from outside, or downstairs, and in park slope the sky has been so overcast that anything preceding this weekend has been blown out, erased, pura white-out. the only wails outside come from children not getting what they want. and from M&J's window all i can hear are boys slapping basketballs against concrete, supported by an arhythmic chorus of efforts and yelps and squeaky shoes against a ground that must've already seen a century of boys doing the same before today. in this house is a mother raising two boys, the time and place and photos are all triple and quadruple exposed; these rooms are historic but present, yes this is now but this home holds so much; all of time is happening now. the arhythmia of the basketballs-on-concrete outside produces the perfect backdrop against which to dream about anything, because inconsistent sounds give your brain nothing to latch on to or obsess over. a dripping faucet dripping water as if to a metronome, or a song whose lyrics i already know, these are impossible to fall asleep to. if i am napping in the afternoon, i say, IF i am napping in the afternoon i have already let it go, because i want to be somewhere else. the cat i'm watching comes alive at 5 am but my hands are too weak to scratch her that early in the morning. we are on different rhythms, but that is no surprise. in september i'll return to bushwick to attempt what i've never attempted before, and that has to do with the creation of a space that is as good to me as those who love themselves and their loved ones must be. if any of my friends ever need to come stay with me, i want them to be able to walk around barefoot, see me in the space, feel safe, and dream. peacefully.