Friday, March 23, 2007


Dream image: A man walks into a revolving door with eight chambers. A woman walks into the chamber behind him, to spy on him. A man follows in the chamber behind her, to spy on her. Etc., until the last chamber is also occupied by a spy, and everyone’s cover is suddenly blown.

Not-a-dream image: At the Arab restaurant, a woman at the table next to us excuses herself to answer a cell phone call. Over Thomas' shoulder, I catch sight of the woman talking on her cell phone on a bench near the dessert case. Her left hand is holding her cell phone to her ear, in an unusual way, her hand straight up and almost flat, her phone hidden by her blonde hair. Her right hand is guarding her ear against the room’s noise, and also rests straight and flat against her head. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is hanging open. Dressed in a bright green vee-neck sweater and black swing skirt, she looks like a 1950s sock-hop version of “The Scream.”

Wednesday night’s dream: I am on a Greyhound bus, writing a story in oil stick on the pages of a fashion magazine. In the front of the bus, I see the emerging author, N______ C______. He knows me but not by sight; I keep my anonymity. The bus has a long rest stop at a library in the Midwest. We are sitting at the same table, with the 12 year old who is his travelling companion; still I don’t introduce myself. I lose time, it is sometime later, and it is the Danville bus station I am departing from. I know it will take me at least 13 hours to get to D.C.

Thursday, waking life: Emerging author N_____ C______, with whom I have mutual friends but with whom I have never communicated, emails me to ask me for a ride to Cleveland. I tell him, Sorry, but, I haven't had a driver’s license in nine years.

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