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Dream: 8.28.19

August 28, 2019

I’m yearning towards massive mountains, a sparkling sea, both grey, obscured by rain, just across the way.

I’d been out on the spit earlier, taking photos, but that’s not close enough. I need to be there. (Not observing, not recording; being, with.)

I realize, abruptly, that I’m in a house, with other people. The wind outside is getting stronger. It suddenly seems imperative to close all the windows, firmly, which will somehow prevent the house from being lifted off its foundations, thrown around.

I have to be sensible, first. Take care of.

I can lose myself in glory … later.



The mountains looked like the ones at Turnagain Arm, in Alaska, but they felt like Australia. (Although not a place in Australia I recognized.)

The mountains were calling me, much louder than the sea? bay?

I was responding with every fiber of my being, but… I’m also human, and had to care-take, first. (While I could still think like a human.)

Not sure if it was death, or at least destruction, calling me just as much as the mountains, but I wasn’t afraid. I was ready. I was eager.



With this latest round of Positive Disintegration, I’m in free fall a lot of the time. I even told Spouse about it — something I would never normally do — because the discomfort, over weeks and weeks, is so difficult to bear some days.

(At least I know what’s happening, having been through the process 6? 7? times before.)

Do I keep writing poetry? Yes. The universe has been unequivocal about that one thing.

The dream seemed like it was about being =vallo=. Which does include poetry, as a way of remembering, making sense of, figuring out how to go forth.


19 more books, including one I bought in Toronto in 1994, heading to Minnesota. Divesting. Draining away.

What remains?

No sé.

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