My awareness in the dream began with a sense of fiction, with images and words swirling together not on a page as in a book but more as a hologram in motion. There was much to this that was not amenable to description, where time and sequence were liquid in some way. The whole scene was breath taking to my awareness, though I as such was not visible though some sense of I was witness to this fluid geography.

I have may ways of working with my dreams. One way, is to consider the dream as a prompt for story, to embody the dream in some form of narrative. Sometimes, this takes the form of poetry and at other times as fiction as the dream itself suggested.

My method for doing this is not to “think up”a story in any conscious sense, but to enter into what I call a narrative space. In this space, I try to settle into a state of blank mind. Then, I wait. I wait for something to present itself, to make itself known. This may be a sound, a word, a phrase, most anything. And with that I become what feels more like scribe than author, and the fiction begins to flow. What results is nothing I would have come to otherwise.

In relation to the dream describe above, what came was s story entitled, The Museum of Indifference.

THE MUSEUM OF INDIFFERENCE

The Opening of the Museum of Indifference

Sandwiched between a porn shop and a lunch time eatery, the newly opened Museum of Indifference was awaiting its first visitor. Unlike MOMA, the MOI did not intend to acquire items for display. The announcement displayed on a small poster in the window indicated the exhibit, called “Artless Visionary Projection,” was now open and in readiness for “public indifference.”
Joseph Krill stood motionless, pondering whether entering the exhibit would be a violation of its odd intention. Entering would express at least a minimal desire to find out what this exhibit was about. That desire could not be considered indifference. And moving on, would not be indifference either. Straight ahead logic left him motionless not knowing at all what to do. But then, he thought, does his own action need to reflect the intention of the exhibit or exhibitor? Say it was a Matisse exhibit. You don’t have to be Matisse, or even know anything about Matisse, in order to enter and appreciate or not the art of Matisse. There were no requirements for the viewer. So why should he consider there to be requirements here to enter, or not, the Museum of Indifference? Should he not be indifferent to whether it made a difference?
Joseph was known among his associates as a thinker. It was said that he could think himself into a wet paper bag, and delight in the discoveries he made there that had escaped his contemporary’s small minds. Not that this talent helped to navigate the shifting sands of his mother’s incessant demands, or the landscape known as “girls,” nor even the simplicities of balancing his checkbook. But Joseph Krill was an unflappable chap and he gloried in his musings, which prompted him now to step inside the Museum of Indifference.
The walls were covered in an unrelieved flat gray, highlighted in spots by beaming blue-tinged lights hanging from glide rails mounted on the high ceiling. The floor was carpeted in multiple darker shades of gray forming patterns, though of what, it could not be determined. No matter.
His corduroy and muted yellow suit was set off well by the varying shades of gray carpet and light bespotted gray walls. His black boots and what he considered to be his most fetching highlander leather cap were decent finishing touches to his outfit--not that his cap had done much fetching, as of late, if ever. Still. He could not claim indifference to his appearance and was meticulous in arranging himself in presentable ways no matter the occasion.
"Good afternoon Mr. Krill."
The deep baritone voice had no discernible location but turned Mr. Krill full around eyeing for the source of this voice. But no one was there. Gathering himself together after the shock of this strange welcome, he voiced his surprise.
"I'm curious as to how you know my name?" He spoke out into the expanse of the room with as full a voice as he could muster and did not like the edge of quiver that was all too evident.
"Do not concern yourself Mr. Krill with things of lesser importance. Please focus your attention on the light spot on the first panel near the door."
"But there's nothing there except for the light spot."
"Not true, Mr. Krill. You simply have not seen yet. Stay focused on the light until you see."
"Just the light. Nothing more," Mr. Krill managed.
"You are neither poet nor raven, Mr. Krill. We are not in a rush. Take your time."
"It's no use. My mind is going crazy with trying to figure out how you know my name. Besides, it's just a light on the wall. What else is there to see? Why can't you just tell me straight out how you know my name?"
“Mr. Krill does not know the deep character of indifference; does not know the difference between insidious indifference and nourishing indifference. Are you ready to learn, Mr. Krill?”
The female voice that filled the Museum of Indifference was not sultry, nor sensuous. It was more enveloping, a kind of inseeping, as if it was being absorbed by one’s skin. Mr. Krill shuddered as the sensation took hold.
“A clear case of an error of misplaced indifference, my dear,” the baritone voice announced.
“Yes, yes, clearly so. I ask again, Mr. Krill, are you ready to learn?” The woman’s voice crawled all over his skin again and although he was not given to dramatics, Joseph Krill felt the coming of a faint, knees weakening, arms reaching out for something to hold. With nothing to hold him up, Mr. Krill folded and fell, his last bit of consciousness finding its way to the light spot, and as the darkness took hold, he began to see.

The Blue Hippo and the Owl

“Well, Mr. Krill,” resumed the dreamy Voice, bringing Mr. Krill around. His eyes blinked open. Raising his hand to block the flood of light pricking his eyes, he tried to speak but found his words would come.
Are you enjoying the show?”
“Show? What show?” Mr. Krill’s words fell into the room like a lead balloon, his usual easy speaking deserting him.
“Why Mr. Krill you surprise me. Surely you remember what you saw.”
“How the hell do you know my name?” The words came easier now that his consciousness was returning bit by bit. He raised himself to a sitting position, but a dizziness took hold and he made no further effort to stand. His stared at the first panel spot of light.
“Not back to that are we Mr. Krill? What did you see, my good man?”
Mr. Krill closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as if trying to rub away an ache following a Friday night binge. Not that Mr. Krill ever binged, mind you. In addition to being a thinker, Mr. Krill was a temperate soul, not given to extremes.
“Come on, Mr. Krill,” the woman’s voice carrying just an edge of impatience. “You can remember.” Not so much encouragement as cajoling, almost sweet-talking.
“OK, OK.” Mr. Krill was feeling a bit bullied by this voice that could not be seen. As Mr. Krill continued to rub his forehead, he started to think about whether voices could be seen in any event, then caught himself, pulling himself back from distraction and tried to focus on what he’d seen.
“You remember now, don’t you, Mr. Krill?”
“Do you have a name?”
“Mr. Krill. We do not want you focusing on the irrelevant. What did you see?”
“OK, it’s coming back. It’s just ridiculous!’
“Mr. Krill.” The lady’s voice continued its seeming indifference, but Mr. Krill’s skin was crawling with hints of warning.
“OK. There was a bridge over some water, I think. It was dark but also light enough to see, like maybe the moon was in full shine. Then from the other side, coming toward me was this hippopotamus. It was a strange blue color almost fluorescent. On top of its head was an all-white owl. As the hippo came near the whole scene began to ripple like water and it all went black. That’s what I remember.”
“What about the fish, Mr. Krill?”
“The fish?” I don’t recall any fish.
“Never mind, Mr. Krill. We must turn our attention now to Miss Vandavi. Ah, here she is now,” the woman’s words coinciding with the door opening followed by the appearance of a very tall figure, no doubt of the Indian sub-continent, and carrying a monumental handbag strapped to her shoulder with the eyes of a small cocker spaniel peering over the edge and emitting a low rumbling growl.

Ms. Vandavi Disciplines Mr. Krill

Mr. Krill was lost for thought. His mind going blank was unusual as it always so readily filled up with trivia and inconsequentials. Now that he needed his precious thinking, it had deserted him, leaving him a hapless chap still sitting on the floor of the Museum of Indifference.
“Ah Mr. Krill, your blank stare tells me you are ready for Ms. Vandavi and her special talents. Relax, Mr. Krill.” The bodiless voice filled not only his ears but his lungs as well. She—whoever she was—filled the air he was breathing in. He was panting.
“I still…I still…want to know how you know my name. I need to know.”
“Needs, yes, they are well worth tending, Mr. Krill, but here we find your needs to be a matter of indifference. You may no longer have such a need when Ms. Vandavi and Bitzy have finished your lesson.”
“I think…I will…just leave. I’ve had…enough of your…damn nonsense.” His words came out in lurches as he couldn’t catch his breath. He tried to get up only to discover he was unable. Fear was creeping up on his annoyance.
Bitzy escaped Ms. Vandavi’s outsized bag and made a beeline for Mr. Krill’s trouser leg, promptly treating it as if a familiar fire hydrant, leaving not a single drop on the rich carpeting of the Museum of Indifference.
“Ordinarily Mr. Krill, Bitzy would apologize for this outrageous behavior, but not here in the Museum of Indifference. It’s part of the lesson you see. While you have given up something—as soon as the papers are signed of course—you have now received something in return. Quid pro quo it’s called.”
Mr. Krill found that his thinking had returned, and his breathing had normalized as Ms. Vandavi spoke. Her voice had none of the enveloping qualities of the Voice, it was more as if she was talking at him, throwing her words in his direction. His thinking rolled into gear and he realized at once that he had a comeback to Ms. Vandavi’s no doubt affectational use of Latin.
“But Ms. Vandavi, if I may speak bluntly, quid pro quo means an equal exchange of value. I do not see how the exchange of my dream hippo and owl for your mutt pissing on my pants is an equal exchange. It’s all crazy. My hippo and owl were a dream or hallucination or some damn thing like that—unreal at best—but piss is real Ms. Vandavi, as I’m sure your nose is telling you.”
“My, my, Mr. Krill, you do have your back up! You are not quite getting the lesson Mr. Krill. Bitzy’s urina is quite real to be sure, but you see it’s all a metaphor. What have you pissed on Mr. Krill so that Bitzy needs to make you utterly aware? It’s a living metaphor. Do you know? Say it Mr. Krill and you will be free to go—after signing the papers.”
“Urina? What’s with all this Latin? Are you trying to impress me? This whole idea is ridiculous. I can’t sign away my dream, or whatever it was. Dreams have no legal standing as property—any lawyer will tell you that. Signing your papers is a will o’ wisp.”
Mr. Krill was pleased with himself that this term had floated into his mind and seemed in the moment to describe the situation perfectly—though, if he had to admit it, he wasn’t quite sure what the term meant.
“Ignis fatuus. I assure you Mr. Krill, the Museum of Indifference is not dealing with ‘foolish fire.’ To be sure, the quality of your AVP left something to be desired but nonetheless as the Museum’s first visitor, you must sign away your hippo and owl, not to mention the bridge and fish as well as the qualities of light, and all else contained therein to use the legal description.”
With this, Ms. Vandavi took a piece of green paper from her monumental tote and dropped it in front of Mr. Krill.
“Sign it,” she demanded without hint of any other possibility.
Mr. Krill looked at the green page, looked at both sides. All he saw was a line near the bottom of one side with his name printed in: Joseph Sizemore Krill. But there was nothing else on the page.
“I can’t sign this; there’s nothing on it. You could fill anything you want after I sign it. How stupid do you think I am?”
“Let’s be clear Mr. Krill,” the Voice returned. “Recall you claimed there was “nothing there” on the first panel when you looked. But you were wrong Mr. Krill as you came to know. You are wrong again. You just are not looking in the necessary way. Sign it Mr. Krill and you will be on your way. We have your Hippo and the owl and the other things you saw—even some you didn’t. And you have Bitzy’s urina. Fair exchange, seeing how you have pissed on your own AVP by devaluing it as not real.”
“And Mr. Krill,” the baritone voice added, “we hope you have learned your lesson.”

Mr. Krill Objects

Mr. Krill looked again at the sheet of paper and still saw nothing. What the hell did it mean to sign away rights to his images he saw while dreaming, or unconscious or whatever the state was? He was more than annoyed. He decided to protest.
“Lesson? That’s a crock! Tell me now, right now, what it means to sign away my images?” He was standing now and felt he was being as reasonable as possible—even a bit brusque if he had to put a name to it.
“Truth be told, Mr. Krill, you do not have, and never have had any proprietary claim to such images. They are not yours.”
“What? Not mine? That’s patent nonsense!”
“Well,” the woman’s voice continued, “like most others, you suffer from this common delusion. These images visited you Mr. Krill. And what did you do? You pissed on them. You could have invited them in, welcomed them, befriended them. You cared nothing for them, even denied them any reality.”
The woman’s rebuke was laid out in that voice that made his skin itch.
“So, what if I did. What business is it of yours anyway?” Mr. Krill was shouting trying to gain some solid ground.
“We are not indifferent to how you or others treat dreams. We will not have any proprietary interest in your images, Mr. Krill, even when you’ve signed the agreement. But your signing will allow us to treat your images differently, and if I may say so, with respect. We will treat them in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.”
“You’re insane, that’s what! I’m in some loony bin here! I’m leaving! Screw your damned agreement!” Mr. Krill was in full froth, so unlike his usual mild manner, as he headed for the door.
“If you don’t sign voluntarily, Mr. Krill, then you will not be able to leave. Go ahead, try the door.” It was baritone speaking.
Mr. Krill tried the door and it would not open. Exasperated, he took out his pen, an old Mont Blanc his father had given him. Placing the paper on the window, he signed his name, and as he did so, he began to see words forming on the page, but could make nothing out.
The woman’s voice announced, “You may take it with you Mr. Krill as we now have a copy of your signed agreement.”
“How…,” Mr. Krill stammered.
“Do not bother with inconsequentials Mr. Krill. It is quite unbecoming.” The baritone voice continued, “My dear, tell Mr. Krill what his behavior has prompted us to do.”
“Ah, Mr. Krill, you have inspired us to open the MOPOD as an extension of MOI.”
“MOPOD?”
“Yes, Mr. Krill, MOPOD: The Museum of Pissed on Dreams.”