8

 I am walking through a door into a 40's-style bedroom; from my size I must be seven or eight years old. On my left is a queen-size bed, headboard to the wall and covered with a quilted, coral floral bedspread; on the other side, wooden drawers or a dresser under windows shaded by venetian blinds; in the far corner a dressing table and mirror in an ornate painted frame, and in the far wall a pair of wooden closet doors. I am walking toward a gun lying on the corner of the bed. I pick it up with my left hand. It seems complex, precise, impressive: chrome and a warm hardwood grip. It's similar to a .45 automatic, but with mechanisms I don't recognize. I look at it for a while, then point it around the room. Because it's unfamiliar I feel wary of it, afraid it might go off by accident. I suddenly realize I am pointing it toward the mirror and move it away; then I see residue splattered on the mirror, like dried Coke or lotion, and wonder why the mirror is dirty...
 I am riding in the back seat of a bright, shiny 50's convertible, with the top down on a sunny day; a mature woman seated on my right. We are driving down a city street; I don't see who is driving. Maybe I am not me, is my hair different, straight rather than curly? The woman is neither ugly nor pretty, with a scarf tied over her hair, wearing a coat (and gloves?), it is hard to tell her age; maybe late 40's. We are chatting together and she may have asked what the initial "B" in my name stands for, because I say, "The B is for boyish" and feel clever...
 Throbbing and insistent music, like a rock music ensemble. I recognize the muscular energy and say to the woman next to me, "It's Beethoven, don't you recognize it?" I dart into the room where it is playing but there are no musicians, only cheap speakers blaring parts of the late quartets...
 Wandering in a house that is converted into a bookstore. Books and hardware on homemade shelves. I wander through the house, the kitchen, the living room (rather dimly lit and drearily furnished), and think "you really can make a house into almost anything"...
 I am talking to people in a dingy back room of a restaurant or bowling alley, and I notice a small fat book on the shelf. I take it down and it is about Dublin, edited by James Joyce, paragraphing like Ulysses. There is a photo of a Dublin street, but the picture moves as if on a television screen and the scene seems familiar, like State St. in Ithaca or one of the hilly avenues of Göteborg...