(just residue. otherparts untold - the tea party with the palestinians, etc.)

"Pacino, Fuck!" That's what I shout as he goes around the side of my house, fed up with not ever getting a hold of me. (I had ignored the bell again). Because the door in the back doesn't lock he takes it off. He's not hostile, just annoyed and doesn't seem to want to help me fix my door or my washer/dryer set, both of which are covered with white paint and are missing critical pieces. I'm not sure how i got to be good friends with al pacino but i can tell by his grumbling that he's going to stick by me for awhile.

No. I guess i don't feel like writing about this. Interesting revision of space at the time - an area of my 'house' that was really a mess and mostly very vulnerable and herein is revealed to be quite properly locked further down a different, rather beautiful hallway and in between is a small but special low terrace view right at the beginning and in the physical middle of river rapids. Many black kids are there, just getting ready to swim it, and so is the new teacher I met who should really be getting ready for class instead of swimming the rapids around or writing inscrutable dreams blogs. okok. to the roster!

not a dream

they are there because they will never leave. i am avoiding them, not looking, not feeling their fact. That I can do this means 'I'm fine', my day is good. I feel them though, know all the truth of it, though i won't acknowledge it - walking that thinnest of lines. They do the same - addressing me, loudly enough to be heard, but not insisting - knowing that iknowthattheyknowthatiknow as they lean forward just enough into my peripheral vision. Between blinks or the polishing of a table I see the bed, the gate, the bike on its side - its tires still spinning.

It seems it's all in the future. That the glimpses are premonitions like I had yesterday, raking, a second's intuition that the sky would simply and actually crack apart or that it already had and I at least looked like I'd survived it.