boccaderlupo

I dreamed I was with my family in some unrecognized home. It didn't seem like our town. Things were bad out there. The whole family went to visit a shop we had seen, a kind of flea market that also had a variety of desserts and such. My son found a rack of "belly tees," and pulled out one featuring The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. "Purple Rain." He handed it to me, laughing. An Indian fellow nearby started chuckling, but then I noticed he was wearing a "belly tee" featuring the New York Yankees, worn over a dark thermal, which he hurriedly began to doff. I laughed.

We returned to the house. The marketplace had been full of light and humor. Outside, though, it was darkness. People walked by bearing torches, headed for parts unknown. My son-in-law was an artist or sculptor; he and my daughter intended to go out, but I was dubious. I knew my son-in-law might be a target for a certain drug dealer who lived in the area, some unknown vendetta. They decided they would wear disguises. My son-in-law made a sort of paper mache dragon costume, painted a variety of colors, almost like one of those Chinese dragons but in Christmastime. The dragon had lanterns dangling from its horns. My wife and I both painted our daughter's face: bride of the dragon. She didn't look like herself anymore, although I wondered how my son-in-law was going to move in that daffy costume.

We watched them depart down the alleyway. They turned into the street, their shadows snuffed out by the fires passing by.