I am on the back porch of my childhood home. A large Mexican gray eagle lands on my shoulder and then jumps to the ground. I coax him back up and tell G to go get my camera. She returns but can't seem to work it. I take it from her angrily. It has become camera parts imbedded in yellow cheese. I try anyway to hold it at arm's length and get a shot.
I am trying to leave town in my truck. People have placed two garbage cans as obstacles in the road and have dug a series of holes as part of a contest. I swerve and spin to avoid them but finally must come to a stop. It is impossible to get out of town. Everyone has gone mad, making their own barrier contests.
I arrive at a museum. G and my family go in ahead of me. I decide to buy the $10 ticket instead of the $15 one. I ask my sister if she's seen G. She tells me instead about some great surprise our mother has found. I walk down a hallway on the third level. I grab hold of a portal pillar made of mud and stone and peer down into the courtyard below. Under wooden vegas covered with vines I see some sheep grazing. The partition I'm holding crumbles and falls. I close my eyes and wait for the crash but hear only silence. I stroll away nonchalantly.
G has ordered some dirt. She is not home. A couple arrives in a white station wagon. They park in our garage. The guy has dirt piled on a blue blanket in the back seat and some more on top of the sun visors. They want $25. He pulls the dirt blanket out onto our front lawn. I write him a check made out to 'Country-Tried', and worry that G will say we got screwed.
A new reality show has a man, woman and child, naked with soap, pretending to shower without water.
M faces her senseless execution stoically. I am forced to participate. Infuriated, I punch the fat, shamed executioner in the belly. My arm recoils like a spring.
I climb through narrow sandstone notch canyons and out into a steeply sloping, red-dirt valley that was formed by a peasant revolt ages ago. I help a crazy rag-man to find the terminus for a bundle of blue, cat-5 cables. It turns out to be a cash register operated by John Travolta, who is dressed in wizard garb.
G's meditation building: A free-standing, round stucco building in the backyard garden of our new home. A Japanese-style wooden beam arch frames the entryway. Two glowing globe lamps slide across top of the arch on a rope pulley: If these have been separated then someone is inside meditating. Inside, the floor plan is divided into concentric circles. There are four outer meditation rooms, one for each compass direction. An enormous skylight illuminates the open, vaulted ceiling. A circular hallway separates the main center room, which is a large, black-tiled pool, from the meditation rooms. The hallway is lined, floor to ceiling, with walnut bookshelves filled with books and pictures of yogis and saints. A boom box plays ethereal music.
G and I follow a group of female, Asian, Moonie-type cult people to their trailer parked in the high school parking lot. I run ahead and try to speak to the leader. Meanwhile G is taken inside the trailer. I return and follow them in. For such a small trailer, it is deceptively large inside. Everyone has now disappeared. I search through many empty rooms. Finally, out a window I see that G has been drugged and is being driven away on a yellow fork lift. She shakes limply on the tines. I call to her and yell that I love her. She looks at me, frightened and pleading, and then is gone. Outside the window I can see they have begun to set off fireworks.
My mother and I step off the neighbor’s porch right next to a sleeping mountain lion. I back away slowly and run to get my camera. The lion is gone when I return. A neighbor woman tells me it's now in her garage under the hose. I lift the garage door slowly. I can see its fur and I close it again quickly.