Unpleasant dreams last night... first there was something with Becky -- she didn't like the way I'd done something and I freaked out, way more than was deserved. I don't really remember the details though. I was unfair, and while she did a good job of forgiving it, for a little while it stood around quietly -- as evidence of "the way things should be," ie. not close, not coordinative; those things are poison for us. We didn't say anything about it though.

���� Then I woke up in the middle of the night, sweaty and tangled in the sheets. It's pretty common that I go to sleep clothed and wake up naked, but lately I've been stripping waist down only, every night. Which would normally be fine but recently everything has become all dismantled and, while not actively sad, definitely broken-hearty and disappointed and wanting; so when I wake up in the middle of the night half-naked I just feel like, "damn it, not again, now I have to search for my clothes at the bottom of the bed, why can't I just stay asleep and dressed for once and have a little peace; the last thing I need right now is this nakedness, it's just sad."

���� After that I had a dream set in the Alexandria of Durrell's Quartet. I had no interaction with the characters and my presence had no connections with the books' plots; I was just there in the heat and the dirt, conspicuously less well off than the few present and observable characters, who weren't that well off to begin with. Actually, I spent quite a bit of time searching for the library, which I eventually gave up when I was overcome by hunger.
���� As in the books, the dream experience was something like being run over by and dragged under a beautiful, massive, magic carpet -- an intricate, thick, scratchy persian rug, woven of consciousness in one direction and the periodic table of the elements in the other. In its written form it's brilliant; when experiencing it in the first person, however, it's a lot harder to appreciate:
����I traversed Alexandria beneath an appropriately profound and poetic stink, one that rippled with color and heat and purpose; in passing I listened briefly to characters Balthazar and Melissa talk in an alien-sounding language about livestock and disease; finally I landed face down on the beach, a failing ending to my days-long endurance quest to sniff out the presumably enabling, restorative library.

���� I woke up tired, hungry, and hot.

���� Here's hoping that disparate intuitions and impulses converge, at which point they unlock each other.


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