August 17, 2013

Odd divorcement, odd ( and wilful) separation from the substance I normally call myself. For the moment, the only way to survive.

Vivid dreams before waking, mostly so complicated there is no way to tell them. But, as near as I can tell, in the last of them I was teaching in a high school. Hughie Schuckman (who was in my Boy Scout troop) was in my class. One of my friends was another teacher who had hurt her foot. It gave her relief if I pushed her along the polished floor rather than her having to take steps. Her husband taught at the school, and I thought it odd that he never helped her. I snuck an X-ray of her foot, and discovered it wasn’t an injury, but an apparatus in her toe which seemed to be spinning out a curious red-orange thread.  There was some sort of contest going on among the homerooms, a contest which would be contended behind complicated screens like those on submarine movies. I wasn’t familiar with the equipment, so I yielded my place as captain of our team to Hughie. But my discovery of the red thread in my friend’s toe alerted everybody that something nefarious was going on. I think it was going to enable her husband’s team to cheat in some now-forgotten way.

I keep noticing the queer silence of the summer mornings. Everybody is exhausted.

Writing about the Davidson sisters of Plattsburgh. I think Poe will be in the play.