why does it make me wake up screaming? (seems silly, but scared me)


I am in someone else's apartment, to rest up, rest my nerves. (is something wrong with me?). the apartment is beige, bland. the owner is not there. no one is. i am alone.

time weighs heavy and I am uncomfortable, but can't say why. but then across the room past the bed, a woman, who has just come out of the shower or something, walks past, naked and with long, wet brown hair. she is not real.

or I am not.
she's seems confident in her reality though and I'm filled with fear.

it's not a jealous dream, I don't think (though certainly there could be a new long haired brunette in his apartment, showering and comfortable ... which, I have to admit, is not a neutral thought).

it's not a jealous dream though.
it is that she is not real. I know it.
or I'm not.

i try to leave the apartment but have to walk past the hallway she is in. I am terrified I will see her reflection in the mirror.

I see nothing. I see the side of the bed reflected as it should be. Maybe I am not crazy. Then she leans into the reflection, strapping on a shoe. She takes her time and looks up at me with a slow-forming smile.

I wake myself up calling out.

80,000 hearts

ripped out in four days!!

had a quick refresher on the Aztecs this morning.

[.. it's hard to make the sun happy ...]

another variation -

this suggesting perhaps lack of growth or a confusion about where or what or how my creative space is now.


i go to where my studio is. again people are there in the small front space working on macramé portraits. i could take up a tiny spot in the corner or, whoever i'm with, this time I don't know, oh. no --a colleague --shows me my space. we go partially outside the building and squeeze past some obstacle. i already don't like it because, in truth, i am more and more claustrophobic these days. it seemed a very bad sign to be cramped getting there. we come into a room that is mostly black and has, somehow, no floor and is filled, on the far side, with ravens. it feels like a room in a fairy tale and there are iron pots and branch-brooms, a heavy dark-raftered ceiling and such. i don't like it, but my workspace is higher. i can't remember what it looked like now, but I also didn't like that space - maybe because i had a bad feeling about the 'room' underneath it which was creepy, dark and dusty.

so i left the building and remembered that my real studio was in a place that had been recently gentrified. (i seem to be worried about superficial modifications to my creative space...). anyway, it was totally redone - cutesy, like old sac but my dealer was there opening the door, so I knew it was the right space. then, again, like yesterday's dream, those bigger and bigger waiting spaces.

i'm not sure if this was before or after the bit about Paris. (which WAS after the long bit about waiting in lines for the bathroom.... we'll leave that one undiscussed).
The lingering fact of that part was that my feet already hurt when once again she was right beside me. We only had the one day. Everyone was wasting their time (and so were we) in a giant converted warehouse that was just full of cheap junk to buy. Cheap plates, purses, towels, toys. The day was going by. She and I decided we had to, how could we not??, get to Notre Dame, to the Louvre, before the day ended.

I was stunned that she was alive of course, but we didn't have time to talk about it. We could see down the Seine. We knew that it didn't LOOK that far away, the cathedral, but that it would be a bit tough to actually get there. I said I knew a great place on the Isle St. Louis to eat. And if I couldn't find it - there were many others. The place, I assured her, was full of life, the best of life. We would have the most lovely time together. It was not too late, but we had to get walking. The river was already misty and pearlescent as in the first of evening light.