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I dreamed I was at a dinner party. It was in a house that was in the woods, a place that was relatively isolated. Lots of people there. I seem to recall having to take a steep, hilly road to get to the place. It was warm and inviting. At one point, a huge dump truck pulled into the yard. It was filled with debris such as pieces of broken concrete and asphalt. A couple of the guests or people who lived there ran out and started heaving the debris onto a mound of similar stuff.

I felt welcome and at home there. I was just a guest, but it was pleasant and comfortable. I knew that I had to leave eventually, but there wasn't a lot of tension around that issue. The dream seemed to have several parts or episodes, but only the truck scene stands out now.

The people who owned the place and had issued the invitations were mostly people from LeapFrog. C was one of the people and seemed to have a major role in the place. She was serving as the hostess and kept things moving, introduced people, helped with the food.

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I awoke early, but fell back to sleep for another two hours. Finally awoke and made myself get out to get a cup of chai. Picked up some snack foods and returned. L is heading to sauna today. I keep thinking that I'll skip J's party and dance. I feel that I'll be better served by dancing instead spending time with a noisy, drinking crowd. Not totally decided yet.

Just left L's place as she gets ready to head to sauna. Feeling restless. I feel like I want to do something different. Some sort of change of pace would be in order. I've become frozen and ritualized. I don't feel like I'm moving freely, which I am not. Gardeners outside today with leaf blowers and mowers. They do battle with Mother Nature for a fee. Rains earlier this week made them postpone their normal blow-and-mow activities.

I just discovered my first attempts at creating a blog. Did so by entering the wrong blog ID name. Nothing in those blogs, but the system has preserved them. Robust file saving features. The old blogs are years old. Back when I was experimenting with putting up a blog from within another ISP. Ancient history.

I'm reading a collection of short stories by Morrell. Interesting story called Front Man that deals with an aging writer and how he breaks through the firewall meant to keep out older writers. He tricks the gatekeepers, sort of. His writing is clean and clear, interesting but not phenomenal. He's been prolific, like the character in his story, but is having problems breaking through the latest barriers to creative work. So many good writers.

And so many bloggers. Blogging looks like it has unleashed a demon. It is impressively prolific, although subjects and content don't seem to be its strong suits. There are exceptions, like there are in conventional writing, but not a lot when matched against the volume of stuff being blasted into blog space. Yes, even I am contributing to the deluge.

Tsunami. Deluge. Catastrophe. Cataclysm. Sunshine breaks through the sky full of clouds. The garden lights up and sends sparkling shimmers everywhere. Little photon demons awake and cause the beams to dance and sparkle. Mower noises begin to fade, to move away from the garden and concentrate on the front yard. I am swimming in light now. Waiting for the return of the clouds so I can justify my actions.

I find myself free for the moment. Free and unattached, floating on the wind. The skies mirror the chaos. I see nothing in the heavens that will make the outcomes tangible. I think of the lottery and the ritual of handing over money in the hope of breaking free. Freedom manifests in the darkest corners, in the places of shadow.

I am writhing not writing. The spelling nuance makes all the difference. Like the light beams, I reflect, refract and attenuate. I bend with the medium; conform to the cadence. Imaginary miracles inhabit my deepest thoughts. I see myself performing acts of kindness. I also see what I have done. There are no traces of anything. The slates are clean; the markings erased. Someone has scribbled a joke on the headstone of the dream.

Nuance and nanometer. Miniscule magic maintains a mountain where there was no image. Directly, the sinuses explode. They detonate and spray the room with organisms, tiny and remote. I hear the sound of a returning mower. The operator seems uncaring. He only wishes to kill the grass so that the flowers may prevail.

I watch the flickering lights and imagine that they are signals from another dimension. They carry encoded messages and covert instructions. They hold the secret of life, but no one can decipher the encrypted notes. Only the most powerful computers will succeed in exposing what they might say.

Illuminated, I stand. Luminous, I attend. The garden speaks a language of plants, water, earth, light and reflection. The reflected pools of light emerge as the day unfolds. There are whispers and associated vocalizations, but the garden remains intact. It survives, fully.

The hours drift past. The day subsumes. Immense cataracts of water fall in perfect silence across my soul. I am weeping and exalting. I favor the dreams. I am the dream and I will never wake. So goes the day.