July 8, 2012

Epic (if trivial) dream through the night. My mother and I ran a second-hand store. We would put certain things in front of the house on a vast concrete apron– sometimes a mobile home, sometimes salt shakers-- and people would come buy them. Aunt Esther visited, and I complained because she kept the house too hot. This was one of those dreams shallow enough that I could critique it as it unrolled, and to which I would return after moments of wakefulness. Sour stomach caused by a more powerful wine than I’m used to.

In a few hours we’re on a plane. There's never more to do in a house than two hours before you must be at the airport.