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Dreamed last night of two groups of kids. There were four kids in each group. I no longer remember the gist of the dream. Just that there was something the two groups were doing (playing, competing, performing) that involved them both.

So that's it on dreams from last night.

I went to the feldenkrais class this morning. Did learn some things about moving and using more of the skeletal frame to help make the movements. I almost didn't go, but did so at the last minute. Convenient to have the place be only 5 minutes away.

Rain this morning; wind and sun this afternoon. My gut is doing better. Perhaps the acidopholis and the acai are turning things around. Hope so. I dread spending the rest of my life worried about what I can or cannot eat. I don't mind restricting my diet, but I really don't want to spend many days like last Sunday.

So am sticking to a carefully ramped up eating regimen for a few days. Been keeping things soft and citrus-flavored. Growing old is becoming more of pain that I imagined. I'm actually quite healthy, but my systems are sending out mayday messages and exhibiting brink-like symptoms. I'm trying to pay attention, but I'm also resisting at the same time.

Age. Aging. Growing old. Shall I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled? Do I dare to eat a peach? Do I dare not eat one? Beware the lack of moisture and the drying up of the rainy sites.

About done with Oates's stories What is Where? Some really freaky ones like the mother who offs her kids in order to keep her latest man. Weird and freaky. Good examples of really short pieces (1 to 1.5 pages). All are rich and filled with images, thoughts, impressions, descriptions, characters, and narratives.

I'll finish up with that book tonight and then time for a library run once again. Perhaps one of her novels just to see how she extends in that kind of space.

What remains after reading her works and others is the sense of voice each really good writer has. Their voice. Their rhythms, their cadence. Their particular way of being as they write.

I want to find my voice, my cadence, rhythm and style. I know it is there. I've touched upon it briefly, in the past and in what I've produced. There is something there for me to uncover, discover, reveal to myself.

My concern? That I will run out of time, health, wealth, breath before I find that voice. Not just a concern, but an overriding fear that it is all coming to an end for which I have not adequately prepared. The fragility of my body, mind, spirit is not what I have envisioned for my final days. I thought, or at least acted, as if I were immortal. Now, when faced with the reality of things, I falter, stumble and turn maudlin.

I can't seem to resurrect my basic optimism, my easily encountered unconcern. I am winding down or feel as if that is so. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

So I wrap myself in that sweet deep sleep from which comes the dreams. My dreams point me the way and carry messages from me to myself. One day, the dreams will cease and I must ready myself for that time.

I hover, linger here. I do not want to leave so soon, so quickly, so incomplete. I have been a lucky person, who now seems tossed onto the heaps of those who ran their luck aground. I am starting to blither. Blithering is not the voice I wish to find. But I am good at it.

Blither no more, upon this shore. Just let the stars be history. Blither, blop and blagels...