Six people, including me, lie on the ground in our back yard, in 2 rows of 3 or 3 rows of 2, each on a thin cloth or towel, as if each lies in a garden bed without being “raised".  Some are friends, some unknown.  I say, “Since I had cancer, this is what I do – lie down when I feel like it and rest mid-afternoon, if need be.”  I put a black, white and gray cloth headband back on as I stand and talk with a friend.  I introduce her to another friend.  Conversation ensues. There are fruit trees, plants, flowers, and raised beds in the yard.   
 
Next is a scene of friends, including me, lying on the floor of a building by the coast – again, bodies on cloths, in parallel rows. The proprietor of a nearby restaurant, which owns part of the beach, comes over and hands me a business card with an offer of that private beach for us to lie on, provided we have dinner at his restaurant.  It seems like Cattlemen’s, maybe a chain, or a well-known, long-established restaurant on the coast.  On the one hand, lying by the water appeals to me, but if access to that beach is granted only by dining at his expensive restaurant, it isn’t worth the price.  I don't accept the offer.
 
In a final scene people are staying overnight at a house like ours – in the living room – and try to sleep.  I may be on the small red sofa.  The light goes on and won’t turn off, no matter how much I try toggling the switch by the door.  One of the would-be sleepers rises, from the fuss with the light, to see if he/she can help. The dream ends. 

I have gone to a music festival with a girl I know, who is skinny and has a shaved head. It is nighttime and the event is now over, the stages and shops are closing down. There are lots of people from the local village there, they are dressed older than we are, with brown and black clothes. I am trying to find a toilet in the village. We find public toilets which have a urinal and a separate toilet cubicle next to it, with a green plastic door. There is an old lightbulb, and dark texture on the ceiling. I see a baby monkey on top of the toilet. The monkey looks creepy, covered in slime and blood, and is maybe new-born. My friend though says the monkey is cute and scared, and that other people might hurt it, and so she holds the monkey in her arms. We go with the monkey into the street, which is lit by streetlights. Outside there are two men and other villagers, who look like monkeys or evil spirits, with red eyes. We walk out of the village and see a man peeing onto a bush. He is messy, slightly bald, and maybe homeless. He calls out aggressively at my friend. The monkey is irritated at this, gets down from my friend’s arms, and rips the skin off the head of the man and places the face onto his own face. The monkey says, ‘I look like you, now.’

 
Julia chose pages 364 and 365 of Sigmund Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams (Wordsworth Editions) so that when turned by 90 degrees the top page (p.365) had three paragraphs and a footnote so as to hold the festival, girl friend, toilet, and urinal, respectively. The bottom page (p.364) had two large paragraphs, one on which to paint the villagers with peeing man, and one for the monkey peeling off the man’s face. The first part of the artwork that Julia composed and painted was the festival tent, striped red and white, with the red over the printed lines of the page, and with stars above for the night sky made from painting around all the o letters in that section. Near the very end of the group discussion the dreamer mentioned that he comes from a communitarian culture, whereas his partner is from the US and is part of that individualistic culture. He said that they both learn and take on aspects of each other’s values as a result. In talking about the painting after the event an attendee pointed out that the stripes of the festival tent and the stars are like the US flag! As these features were painted at the beginning of the process it was a poignant synchronicity that the dreamer only spoke of his American partner at the end of the event!       
 
Julia also highlighted the found poem:
 
I have dreamed
far more
into
retaining the
interpretation
of dreams. –
the forgetting
the amnesia of
applying my
value