In which you move through my dreams like a trout moves through a pool

There's something a little piscine about today, like a little slippery, or shimmery within the shadows. Murky, but with potential, let's say.

When I woke up today, I was reminded of a Greg Brown song called "Sleeper," from which I swiped the title of this entry. Were I describing the sensation myself, I might not pick a trout for that particular simile--a little too folksy for my taste, but then Greg Brown is the definition of folksy. But regardless, the idea of a fish slipping just below the surface is just about right to describe the dreams I've been having lately.

The dreams started the night I stayed at Kent and Lydia's new place over the weekend. I slept in the Crow's Nest, a square room at the top of the house, painted pale blue, with windows comprising three of its walls. It feels magical and inhabited by other beings, like in that movie with Nicole Kidman, where those other people live in her house... I forget its name. Anyway, my dreams that night brought a parade of visitors who were having a wonderful time and wouldn't shut up.

I slept in the Crow's Nest the next night, as well. (I had planned to leave that afternoon, but inertia and passive-aggression kicked in, and instead I spent the day drinking red wine and playing guitars. Perhaps I'm more folksy than I would like to think.) That night, in my dreams, I kept seeing a man dressed in a white shirt, wearing a dark tie, who was skirting the edges of my vision. It was like he didn't want to be seen, but he kept checking on me. Like a stalker, only with no apparent ill intent. And imaginary. And well-dressed.

So he appeared last night, as well--flickering in and out of my vision. I don't know who he is or why I'm dreaming of him, but dude: If you're reading this? You've been wearing that white shirt for three days now. Consider a spritz of Febreze before you give it another round.

I have my own sartorial issues today, in the form of a beloved grey cashmere sweater that's seen better days. It being a grey day, I put it on in the same way one might curl up with a favorite blanket. When I got to work (8:12, for those of you keeping track), and took a look in the mirror, I realized that a moth or a mouse or something has chewed a series of bra-strap-revealing holes into both shoulders. The holes are oddly symmetrical in placement, and I have to wonder if a moth is really to blame. Because it seems like there was intent in locating these holes, as if something--or someone--wanted my bra straps to show.

OK, I did it myself. Never mind. I just wanted a little attention, but now it's become this whole big thing, so just forget it.


Check out this hottness, and revel in the Spandex.

Star of the day. . .Richard Brautigan
posted @ 9:56 a.m. on April 27, 2006 before | after


She lay awake all night,