I am awake early for a rehearsal. I slept about five hours and managed one of those intensely plotted dreams of which I retain only a fragment like a movie trailer of a woman in a high-waisted white Empire gown running through a pre-dawn or dusk the same drowned blue as her eyes; she is stumbling down an empty road with clouds hanging over the fields and as she runs her face begins to stream like water or ectoplasm, coiling and thickening the air behind her. The funny thing is that it wasn't a nightmare, but I don't know what it was. I would have thought one thing if she was running toward the sea, but she wasn't.
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- 1: I make sure there are hidden messages in my work
- 2: All the ghosts, some old, some new
- 3: I'll stay out until my mind is like a clear glass
- 4: The wind is blowing the planes around
- 5: I cannot feel it, the veil of black, a fine spray of white paint
- 6: Pilgrimage, private life, mortality
- 7: My dream house is a negative space of rock
- 8: Your spirit watched me up the stairs
- 9: No, I'll build a cute flower border
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