In my dream I am a married mother of two. I am dying of cancer. I have a wish to move to Santa Barbara. And to live alone. Jerry and Eliot are my friends. They, too, are moving to Santa Barbara. We find us a house in a deserted mall. It’s spooky. The groundskeeper is a Russian woman who has lost a huge amount of weight. You can see it in the way she walks. The house sits on a beach. There is a a small bedroom with a cot, a kitchen. Suddenly I insist that my sons live with me. Jerry tells me all the different names of the neighborhoods as we drive around. I like this place. I am going to die here. We go on. The house is simple. I have my peace, and when I do not desire it I turn on the TV or the radio. My husband knows not to ask me questions. There aren’t answers. This is how I wish to spend the rest of my days.
Another dream. I am in India. I don’t know why. I am very homesick. I think I am also dying in this dream. I see many colors. Every color. I can see the sun. The rain has stopped. That is good. Because it has rained for so many days.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Lux
Devil's Night is a name associated with October 30, the night before Halloween, particularly in Detroit, Michigan. … Property owners unable to sell in the rapidly declining Detroit city housing market would use this night as an excuse to burn down their homes to collect insurance money.
–Wikipedia
What strong slave – riddled she – of two stones born, woman-tended, warmly blesses if carefully fed.
A plane was rising overhead, full of hundreds whose journeys had come together this chill fall evening and will separate like firework sparks.
I don't know – my wit thudded off the pavement – bigfoot's shoes swinging from a power line in a logging town maybe.
We were walking to see an old skating buddy, whose occasional messages this year hinted at an almost monastic withdrawal devoted to sketching cats and hanging out at the homeless shelter.
The cats were napping at the corners though, and he offered me yerba mate with rare good cheer, while she had a shot of carrot juice colored with cochineal and saffron.
I went to the porch to decide if I wanted to smoke something.
People dressed like goblins, others in tall hats, scuttled up the little hill.
When I returned, I noticed her looking blankly past an incense burner.
You too, I said, and it was as if I was falling into the deepest of beds.
He knew, she said, that's why the cats left and the candles are lit.
I could barely turn the circle; as she prepared the oil, stars weaved slowly, like lazy clouds, like cars turning onto the bridge.
We woke in a small clearing, the sun a bright yellow lamp, words blown away like brown leaves.
For ages afterwards we refused to speak with him, because he wouldn't go to brunch; he insisted that his happiness would blow away at the sight of the converted locomotive's red plush, and that tinsel would corrupt the pure greediness of his claws.
–Wikipedia
What strong slave – riddled she – of two stones born, woman-tended, warmly blesses if carefully fed.
A plane was rising overhead, full of hundreds whose journeys had come together this chill fall evening and will separate like firework sparks.
I don't know – my wit thudded off the pavement – bigfoot's shoes swinging from a power line in a logging town maybe.
We were walking to see an old skating buddy, whose occasional messages this year hinted at an almost monastic withdrawal devoted to sketching cats and hanging out at the homeless shelter.
The cats were napping at the corners though, and he offered me yerba mate with rare good cheer, while she had a shot of carrot juice colored with cochineal and saffron.
I went to the porch to decide if I wanted to smoke something.
People dressed like goblins, others in tall hats, scuttled up the little hill.
When I returned, I noticed her looking blankly past an incense burner.
You too, I said, and it was as if I was falling into the deepest of beds.
He knew, she said, that's why the cats left and the candles are lit.
I could barely turn the circle; as she prepared the oil, stars weaved slowly, like lazy clouds, like cars turning onto the bridge.
We woke in a small clearing, the sun a bright yellow lamp, words blown away like brown leaves.
For ages afterwards we refused to speak with him, because he wouldn't go to brunch; he insisted that his happiness would blow away at the sight of the converted locomotive's red plush, and that tinsel would corrupt the pure greediness of his claws.
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