September 27, 2013

Woke from complicated dreams. I was trying to finish a huge mural that covered several rooms of my house, except it wasn’t my house but a large apartment high up in a building in a big city. Barry and Will had extra guests coming for some occasion, and they wanted the overflow to stay in my apartment, so I was trying to finish the mural, find room for the guests, repair the damage haste and distraction was doing to the painting, and keep the swarms of stinkbugs vacuumed up. They were worse in the dream even than they are in life. The apartment was all yellow because I was convinced that was the best base for the painting.

Bought my tickets for San Francisco. They were surprisingly cheap. . . not that I’ll get to see the city at all.

Faculty reading at UNCA,, poorly and yet sufficiently attended. Tom was there, as he was when I read at the Altamont. It’s like the old days when we were inseparable. I can’t figure out what the difference is now; the fact that I’m trying to is a little sad. Spontaneous interest in me is so rare (I think) that I stop looking for it, and probably identify it wrong when it appears.