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Sitting in the midst of a man-made rainstorm. Sprinklers throwing water up into the air where it falls all over the place. Feel like I'm in a small trawler encountering the perfect storm. My limited view through the windows prevents me from seeing the next "wave" until it splashes across the glass and batters the awning. Such is the morning distractions here in the writing cave.

Dreams last night about some kind of class or seminar where people had to communicate in order to progress--to where or to what is now unclear. Seemed like much of the dream involved filling out cards (not unlike my writing book's scheme for getting started with story creation) and then sharing the content of the cards with others. Perhaps we even traded cards much like the card trading games that kids play. There were several people in the dream from the dance classes--JB in particular. He had constructed a triptych of three women where the faces had been cut from magazines and glued over the faces on three photographs. The faces were like Madonna, Julia Roberts, and one other woman. The photos were some kind of statement he was making about his card choices. Instead of writing anything, he had constructed the collages.

Seems like there was more to the dream or more dreams. I recall being heavily involved with the card creation and card sharing exercises. I can recall feeling like I was being tested and trying to do things correctly--being a smart rat.

Awoke somewhat early, but hunkered back down in the warm covers. Room grew cold in the early morning and was freezing by the time the sun rose. Hopefully, my next place will not be as cool/damp as this one. I had to turn on my small heater to warm the room and my hands as I began to write this posting.

Dance class last night was difficult for some reason. Felt like it was a chore. Most likely a result of learning so many dances. They mushed together and I could barely recall them this morning. I managed to remember Completely, completely. The other new one is only partially recalled.

So, into the day (sort of). It's already late morning and time to jump in the shower. (I could just run outside and gambol through the sprinklers, but it's not warm enough for such activities). I've been tracing the path of my brain supplements as they make their way across the country--NC to TN to IN to IL--not quite half way, but getting lots of mileage.

Still feeling somewhat unhinged--not fully able to focus--wanting to amble, ramble, rumble, wrinkle. Not sure what is happening. Energies bouncing and rebounding. Thoughts ranging over a horde of options--lottery, food, movies, supplements, writing, study, reading, dancing, mail, money, dreams, psyche, development, health, back pains, lipoma, circulation, dry skin, and on and on--thousands of tiny distractions and delusions, dilemmas and delays.

Read an Oates story last night--she can be eerie, strange, but compelling and moving. Finished up my periodicals--one more item to add to the list(s)--replenishing my stash of reading distractions.

And, oh yes! People! There are people I must contact. P, J, et al. The hermit has to leave the cave and make contact with the real world. And a new place to live. The search begins. It begins in earnest as I hit the end of April. May will bring the showers of new cave possibilities. Let it be, let it be.

Dancing last night to Humperdink. Nostalgia is taking over the choreographer's brainstems. Older is as older does. The flash of the past. The last days of disco. Demented diversions dwell deeply down the dripping drains. Alliterative D's wish to dominate my daily dalliance.

This is all well and good, but filled with nothing. Empty air. We are such stuff as dreams are made upon. Rounded with a sleep.

Enough meandering for this morning. Time to venture forth and grab some shine. I will return a later time.
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Many hours later. I leave around lunch time and hours have passed with nothing of substance to show for the passing. No one's fault but my own. I did stop and read, including a "how to" essay on SciFi writing. But as I say, nothing of substance.

Read another Oates story. Rich writing. She is a master. I perused a lot of advertisements for apartments. Depressing activity but one that has to be pursued. Moving time will come round in no time at all.

I've felt logy and heavy all day. Eating a spicy Indian lunch and topping it off with a chai didn't seem to help. It's now about 9PM and I'm just beginning to feel like I'm starting to awaken. Still, however, don't feel like writing anything that requires focus. This journal doesn't require focus. In fact, it is the opposite of focus. It is monophonic blather, continuous and uninterrupted. Words upon words without any real shape of form.

I continue to feel like I'm on the cusp of something, some adventure, decision or event. Yes, I did buy my lottery ticket. That fate is already determined by now. Now that would be a precog vision worthy of actualization. So be it!

Days skip by, days upon days. The inevitable march of time and the eventual halting motions that must occur. How to measure out those final moments? What to do with a limited number of days? A profound silence engulfs me. Binds me within its rigid grasp and shakes me with a quaking thunderous sound. Wake up! Wake up! Rise up and reach, for once, beyond the self into the steely void, the masked fog of possibilities. Will it come to me? Will thou come?

Kirtans echo in my thoughts, in my body. Will thou come? To me? I reach out with hesitant hands, with grasping fingers. I reach out and try and grab hold of the dreams that hover and swirl around my consciousness, in and out of my sleep states. There is an answer. There is a sign and I will know it when it appears and calls to me.

In the silence, in the quiet dreams, I will encounter the core of potential and the flash of lasting illumination.