last Thursday on girls' night out, a this week's dream journal and full report, night after next, usual place and time,
which I recall was the origin of pages in August, dream
latitude and dream license. --Not a mystical soul-search in notes, not at first, I say, but a hard look at loss, slippage between the dreaming and the writing it
down. And as I look back, I can see I began to look away as the space between dream, dreamer, waking self and writing self, in writing became more obviously a source of (a reason to) aestheticizing. Hell of
making it up. Now why stay true to a dream if not for more self-reflexive writing? --and what's wrong with that? Nothing's wrong, I say. And nothing's true here, either, though it makes sense. The digging up
of stuff might've been there when the porch deck buckled and split open last night, and we cupped dirt from a hole in it, moving it elsewhere for planting, I write, though in the dream I was looking at the woman's long white arms and the word
gauze comes to mind now. She stood up, her back to me, and the hole smelled wet and the earth was black, warm (that's obvious), and I am sure now that was don Juan's porch, the one Castaneda rolled around on all night looking for a buzz
of something new, an alternative view, which you could say is something mystical, or was before the hoax of don Juan and co. etc. though I get stuck now on what: what kind of wood would
do that, buckle up in tall waves, look ashen and cracked as if having been nailed for decades into this porch deck, before rain fall before the dream? That kind of wood was conjured, I'm telling you, true, though I can't imagine it's possible and did, and I alone am left
alone to tell you how the house crumbled and killed them all Job's servant said, if you believe what you read. It's raining outside. No it isn't. It wasn't raining in the dream when I was there. She was there turning her back, ask her.
