I have a recurring dream where I am in a single-engine plane flying above Point Bonita, just outside San Francisco, and I am drunk. I am the co-pilot, and the other pilot is a clown with a Rainbow colored wig and a bloody mouth. He is laughing too hard, like he is stoned or just evil or both.
We are going to crash, not into the water, but the rocky area where the lighthouse sits. There are beached seals with bright blue dead eyes waiting for me to crash, so that I may be like them: sedentary, fat, old school.
When I awake I have indigestion. I ate too much the night before.
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