in a house, staring out the window at the most beautiful trees i have ever seen.  fire trees.  they look like living menorahs (with 5 flames instead of 7).  each flame, a huge orange-to-yellow leaf standing on end and glowing in the setting sun.  i ask john how he could ever live anywhere else, this must be the most beautiful place in the world.  i don’t want to leave.  he tells me to visit the trees if i am so infatuated, so i walk down the hill to the trees at dusk.  when i walk around a tree, it becomes 2-dimensional.  a flat image facing the house, but the backside is a case of amethyst jewelry.  necklaces and bracelets made of hundreds of purple stone beads turning gray in the falling darkness.  all of them hanging neatly behind glass.  when i walk back around the trees are gone.  in there place is a museum-style board diagram of organic tubes that when cracked open hold a variety of seeds that resemble whole vegetables and fruits.  the sign boasts about their nutrient rich properties and how ancient civilizations survived off of them.  there were samples and i picked one up and brought it back to the house in a basket.
my mom asks me if i would like sour cream and i say yes even though i don’t like it.  i’m making dinner for everyone and it seems like something the other people would enjoy.  my mom has trusted me to make this dinner even though i don’t really know what i’m supposed to be making.  walking into another room, i pour about half to 3/4 of the sour cream into the bowl of what looks like salsa and the beginnings of chili.  i spill the rest of the sour cream when i drop the tub of it.  the white stuff spills and collects and splatters just before a threshold into another room and i step over it. i hope i’ve added enough to the dish.  it looks perfect for the amount that is in the wooden bowl now, but there was still so much to add and i realize i don’t even know how many people i’m expected to feed with what ingredients i have.  i don’t recognize any of the ingredients given to me.  one of them looks like a small coconut.  when i crack it open it holds when i think is citrus.  some kind of a nectarine-sized blood red grapefruit type thing or something.  but when one section slips out of my hand into the bowl which is on the stove, a small grease fire starts and i realize it’s not fruit, it’s sausage.
laying in the living room, i tell jason that i had a dream about him the night before.  in the dream he was depressed and sick.  he was tired of being called “Troll” but it had become such a huge part of his identity and all of his friends call him that and he didn’t want to disappoint any of them.  he tells me that he is tired of being called troll.  that he’s sensitive about it but doesn’t know how to tell anyone, they won’t understand.  i tell him i won’t call him that anymore.