Aquarius 18° (February 7) 122


Rather more of the same. But super zeroing in. And am ready, actually, to tackle another whole stack of papers in the corner, with their many random notes and ideas, and the off ephiphany, funneling these into their proper slots.

I have put a green notebook bedside to recall dreams and early and middle of the night lying awake thoughts, plans ideas, recollections, insights and the like, hoping it will catch something.

Several nights ago I dreamed I was in a large house I owned in “Wellfleet”, which was more like an in-harbor town looking down somewhat from a cascading hill onto a town set on an estuary. So water was a walk away. The house was gothic in style, with a wrap-around porch with an ornate sort of bannister work in wood. (out of dream)

The other day, S asked or said or something about resentments being heavy. Oh, yeah. I seem to always make a dent in the bed as If I weighed two-forty or something. I’m not my thinnest but surely there must be more to this than just being fifteen pounds overweight—bone density or something. Most people weigh more than I do. We ordered a foam pillow top for the mattress, which I thought would solve everthing. Nope. Now just a deep slope of foam. My side of the bed is like Wales. The foam top has the consistency of silly sponge which I love. The thing was really heavy. I loved silly sponge as a kid; and to a lesser degree, silly string.

I’d like to learn how to make a simple sponge cake. I think I’ll put it on my to-do list. I believe it will be the 1,114th item on it. I miss writing by hand—remember: most of all I’m typing up here now was written free-hand first. I thought it would make a better product and enable me to clean up spelling and grammar as I go. I promised myself I wouldn’t change actual roll out of words nor slick or spice up as I go.

I find it an exercise in mindfulness creating content sream of consciousness. (back to the dream)

It was an ornate, gothic meets Victorian house but it wasn’t tall but rather more horizontal and arts and crafts like in floor plan. Still the rooms looked 19th century, dark greens and deep reds then light greens and pinks and white. One might suspect an elevator, cased in ornate wood, to be lurking around the corner. Where all the rugs are oriental, and innumerable large potted plants of varying leafy and spiky varieties cast giant shadows on walls down hallways. Darkening damusk and the hour was dusk. I could tell, looking out and down onto the waterside village as the sky was lit by the newly set sun, stars twinkling in palest blue. You know those moments when you do realize yourself the embodiment of this orbiting orb in space able to perceive and reach out to the other sparkling spheres out there, feeling a sense of holding hands all together over space.

Lamps were burning in the rooms. I entered back through a wooden screen door, the sort that slams and must be stopped and eased into place with your ass, gently. The house was filled with people coming and going in groups, singly, all overlapping at atonal intervals (like I hope life can be) , the way it often feels in Provincetown.



Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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