Dream

I am staying at a friend’s Manhattan penthouse. The friend has let a young journalist use the flat to interview a rock star. The journalist is a hot shot, but the rock star runs rings round him. At one point the rock star makes a gift of some Ming bowls to the journalist. The journalist is non-plussed. I am sitting in. The rock star doesn’t mind. He says he’s got a friend who works for the Guardian so he’s sat in on interviews before himself. The interview dawdles on, then a friend of the journalist arrives, followed by more friends. The room fills with brattish Manhattanites, coming and going. The rock star suggest that this is spoiling the interview. The earlier intimacy is lost, and I head across to my bedroom. The room is vast, but there are people occupying the en-suite shower. More of the brattish Manhattanites appear, mentioning they’re hoping to see ‘Barack Obama, man’. In a corner of my room, a stall has been set up. Two old ladies are selling War Dead memorabilia. Photos of marines who’ve been killed, and other servicemen. They tell me they come here most nights. The lights of Manhattan glitter behind them. I say I was hoping to sleep – my camp bed is behind their stall. I leave the bedroom. The rock star has gone. I was hoping for a passing goodbye, but am too late. Most people have left. One girl is cleaning up. I point her to a box where something important has been placed.