Because I know the next day I am supposed to move all my paintings from my old studio into my little house, and because I've gone to bed latelate, I wake up earlyearly and try to kill myself with an imaginary brick to my head.
I thought this neurosis had stopped. Apparently not. (aggressive/passive behavior?). Luckily ineffectual. In anycase, finally I sleep and engage in not lucid dreaming but lucid drafting.
Each of us left in my family has their own house and each seems to have huge wings that lead also to other suites of rooms, furnished, bejewelled, terraced with fountains, jade latches, beautiful tea sets set out in slate patios with thriving ferns. (In the morning I think this is a good sign of potential living for us all). I find many rooms I could work in. Front rooms with walls big enough for painting now that they have lost their normal function. I seem to be able to make an occcasional wall vanish or turn or simply absorb the deep stacks of oversized paintings. I have lost most of the dream but remember X (we'll call him) helping me move in as night comes on. We argue. He scolds me for leaving two dead birds in the sink.
