Friday, May 9, 2008

Mixing Up Half A Dozen Stories

In a dream suddenly one is converted to the emotional state of a five-year old child, an unwelcome condition. The wind blows and spring contains some blue essence, like winter reconsidering. So I wake terrified despite a logical-enough brain that wants it different. It's okay, it's okay. The stems of sprouts in the office are ghostly white, their green leafs barely larger than a baby's toe. Certain lights don't work leaving few desirable options.

Zukofsky keeps showing up or did he always and I'm only now just noticing. It isn't insomnia if the problem is you had a bad dream and can't get back to sleep. What was the name of the French couple who walked through the Montreal botanical gardens with us all those years ago, was it Alice and Daniel? You idiot, those are our ducks. You're mixing up half a dozen stories to get this one.

Nobody has responded to me. I should write a mystery again. I can't believe how far I've gotten in this life without seriously doing anything other than read and write. I read a lot.

At night, Jeremiah asks each of us what should he dream about and the result is a kind of contest, who can come up with the best dream. Sophia, currently reading the collected works of L. Frank Baum, is probably the best. C's have to do with food or flowers while I have to struggle not to make mind "too scary." Yet it's me who tells him his bedtime story, lately reheated King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, starring Jeremiah in Worthington. I wonder what he'll think of me when he learns in five or ten or however many years that I'm not making this up.

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