I dreamed Sharon and I had a place together again, in Paradise, I believe. It was similar to the Sutter house, but different. She was still disabled but was mobile enough to crawl around the house.
It came to our attention that there was an Elvis convention going on in the next town. There was going to be an auction where people would be buying and selling Elvis-owned or Elvis-created artwork. It was going to be one of the two, not both, and we were not sure which. We happened to have one of each, so it was just a matter of finding out which one to bring.
I went and fetched them from under the mattress where I had stashed them. They were in pretty good condition, considering they'd been slept on and crushed between the mattress and the bed frame of an adjustable bed.
One was a terry cloth black and fluorescent gaudy print of the king, while the other was an orange velvet swatch of curtain, purported to have been made by the king himself to look like a mini version of something hanging onstage during his Vegas days. One could almost see him draping himself in it as he closed out one of his infamous "wasted" shows.
I heard that either one of the pieces could fetch a minimum of $500, so I was anxious to know which one to take. I asked Richard AC, who just happened to be over, visiting. He wasn't sure and suggested that we call the convention directly.
Meanwhile, he'd been busying himself painting a whimsical abstract pattern on our bathroom wall. It was a white tiled bathroom, and he'd taken some light blue paint and painted a few of the tiles and made some attempts to cover over places where the bathroom paint was missing due to repairs. It was an incomplete and ill-conceived plan, and I wished he'd have consulted with me first. I would, however, be living with it, so I planned to ask him to at least finish the job.
Sharon had encountered some difficulty and was stuck in the hallway, crying. I went to her and asked her what was wrong. It seemed that, in addition to being exhausted from crawling, she was having a moment of sentimentality over the notion of getting rid of the Elvis art. It was unlike her to be so attached to something that could fetch $500, so I reminded her of this, and she stopped crying. Getting rid of crappy art and also making a profit was something which would have been a no-brainer in her book.
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