February 24, 2018

Rose early, ate cinnamon roles and hauled paintings out of my studio, into the truck, and eventually down the road to the Flood. I feared for rain out of the clouds the whole time, but rain never came. Carlos gratified me by saying he would hang the show himself. He seemed happy for the work, grateful, even, and I’m glad I walked this road, even with all the dragging of feet.  Thirteen paintings on various degrees of wood.

When I went out into the yard I saw that the door of the truck was open. If someone had broken in, they took nothing that I missed. Had I left the door open all night? If so, what adventures had the truck had all night with an open door? 

In a dream I am walking at night along a street I recognize as Alaho, back home. I come to our old house, but I don’t go in. I sit on the high place of the lawn and listen. I hear voices. I hear my mother’s voice and realize, as someone in the dream had promised out of the darkness, that she had come back from the dead. Other voices, too: perhaps a party to welcome her. I am about ready to go in and join the party when, out of the forest that used to stand beyond our house, my little black and white dog Bimbo appears. He runs toward me. He jumps into my arms and wriggles with ecstasy. And I feel such peace and joy as I have never felt in my waking life. I wake sobbing so hard I have frightened the cats, sobbing so hard it takes me a while to settle down. I am lost. I have always been lost. I wait for some power out of dreams to find me.