The theme of the dream is that Ruzuzu has announced that she will be leaving the site, not immediately, but soon - her last day will be in a couple of weeks. Wordie (I'm pretty sure it was -ie, not -nik) is a physical space, roughly mapped onto the hillside neighbourhood where I live. Ruzuzu's "house" / presence on Wordie is at the top of the hill. I make my way by bike through slush and gloom to attend her farewell party.
Ruzuzu's space is a smallish bungalow, decorated haphazardly but not without discernment. Everyone is there, milling around with drinks, even long-gone names like Kewpid and Colleen. The atmosphere is cordial, bordering on fun, but with overtones of a wake. Chained_Bear has a baby with her which is passed around merrily. It says "poop!" while Bilby changes its diaper.
Ruzuzu has made a long list of content for us to create on Wordie after she has gone. One example is 'a page to commemorate Charles Sanders Peirce's upbraiding of Mark Twain at a congressional hearing for his improper pronunciation of deliquesce' (except in the dream, a full-page account of the event is given). I read the list and wonder how she can expect us to create all of this, then realise it doesn't matter because she has already created it in the form of the list.
But I am desperately sad that Ruzuzu is leaving. I implore her to stay, but to no end; things are intractably thus (that's what she says, quoting my favourite poet). Finding myself alone, I break down and sob desolately; I feel completely abandoned. Ruzuzu comes over and consoles me by saying that I can take one item from her house to remember her by. I look around and see nothing that could compensate for the loss of her. Bilby chooses a translucent, ruby-red desktop calculator, shot through with veins of amber. Later, I am persuaded to take a tripodal "postcard-holder" - three spindly wire legs with a crocodile clip at the top for clamping a postcard - on condition that she sends me a postcard from wherever she is bound.
No worries, reesetee. I do have a smallish bungalow, but it's at the bottom of a hill, not at the top. And while the slush and gloom are accurate, my postcard holder is actually one of those tall spinner display racks (no crocodiles allowed).
I know that those who have precognition suffer sorrow beforehand, but (for what it's worth) my intention is to stay right here.