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Lost last night's dreams and dream states. Got to bed late after returning from dancing. Awoke fairly early, but faked myself out in the dream department. Thought I had remembered enough to sit down and write about it now. But, puff, the dreams are gone. Back into the collective (or selective) unconscious.

Without a dream, I have no focus. Not really true, but it sounds plausible. Maybe.

Dance last night was packed. Over 81 dancers stumbling around the floor. It was a good solid night of movement and challenge. The challenge was to recall some of the older dances.

L and I went to the movies in the afternoon. We saw Sideways. Good film. Lots of human nature in it. Clever script that kept looking/sounding like it was going to be redemptive, but never was. Protagonists, for the most part, were venal and flawed, just like real people. I kept hoping that they would somehow rise above it all, but they seldom did so. They each had moments of grace and courage, and then they were back in the muck, wallowing and squirming, trying to not tell the whole truth about themselves. Lots of tensions in the film, each pulling the narrative and expectations--well, sideways.

Also keep thinking of another context for sideways--as in up your's, sideways. Somehow that phrase kept emerging from the action.

Mentioned to L the previous day's online search that produced my "double" in a nearby town. I noted the possibility of a parallel world and L noted that I couldn't go meet my double without distorting the time/space fabric. Good story idea in that thought.

Lots of new people (new faces) at the dance last night. Where did they come from? Someone's classes no doubt, but to clear from which ones.

I'm muddling around this morning. Managed to go out and get a pastry and coffee. I'm craving a rich, hot meal. One with potatoes, gravy, meatloaf and such. Something to nail me to the ground. Can't recall the last time I had a real meal--one with several side dishes, etc. I'll put it on this week's agenda.

Have not moved forward with the writing book/program. Only said I'd work on writing for 2 hours today. So will do that, at a minimum, and get on with it.

About time for a "list"--to cover house hunting, writing scheduling, yoga and health issues, et cetera, et cetera. The drift goes on. Stretch and bend, until the end.

Fanciful dimensions unfold. The migratory images and the vectoring of thoughts push forward the agendas of the moment. But the fatal time keeps counting, continues marking the passing of the days. Final days. Am not reading my way through those tales as quickly as some that went before. Short stories--the hope of my final times. Reach and imagine; stretch and grow. There are no other choices; there are no additional dreams. The pantry is empty; the wolf has come and gone.

Synchronous. Words and images devour the moments. Clocks tick and lose track of the passing lives. People come and people go; where they finish no one knows. Doggeral. Reminders of the grave--grave thoughts, thoughts of the grave, the killing fields.

I keep imagining that there is a reason for what is happening, for all that's happened. There, of course, is none, but I keep trying to assemble what looks like a puzzle, but is really only random, forgotten fragments, disjointed and unrelated.

My sisters and I have come close to greatness, each in our own way. We are like minor characters in a flawed story, one filled with promise that never resolves, never completes. We have been in the vicinity of possibility; we have each seen a glimmer of satisfactory conclusion. We are relegated to footnotes, left in the dust of history.

Why am I writing what I'm writing? It is like a clearing, a purging, and emptying that makes me feel somehow more whole and more complete. I look back over the battlefield of my life and only notice faint glimmers of fires, hazy clouds of fading smoke. Does that imply that things are getting clearer? In the normal world that would be the case. In my world, the opposite prevails. When clearing occurs, dense darkness envelopes the scene and masks out the light.

The landlords are puttering in the garden. Performing and ancient spring ritual that they have pursued for scores of years. They plant and dig, cut and water with the hope that the earth, even bound in by fences, rocks and shrubs, will grace the air with flowers and explode in colors all along the paths.

My aching back is telling me it is time to quit this preoccupation and move my clumsy body into the sun. It is now about midday and the sun rides high in the heavens. Time to follow the sun.