All Write, Already!

This morning I dreamt about photoshoots I never had. One young middle-eastern mother with a long braid, her son el-Saud, and their extremely large off-white sheep dog and I riding around someplace after the shoot, the dog or I negotiating for space in, on and around the tiny ragtop. I dreamt of meeting models the second time, and developing a curious intimacy with at least one, a blonde with a classic round face and a German accent. This was at an odd coffee shop, but in a back room. I dreamt I had a large album with various pictures in it, mostly not of the models I shoot. I dreamt that people in costumes dramatically entered and removed them, and that I was one of these. The blonde commented she hadn't expected that, before she had to leave with her friend. There were other models I'd shot in this coffee shop too, its walls lit only by a small skylight, and the cash register manned by slow matrons, but what stands out was the postcards I began to receive, one of which was maybe half the size of an index card, signed by el-Saud, telling me his mother had died.