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Dream dances, dancing the dreams. Awoke this morning with no remembrance of dreams past. Seems that the dreams were so like my waking life that they failed to register, to record, to leave a trail.

Had a good time dancing last night. Got lost in the movement and the music. Few thoughts. Meditative moments and movements. Not a huge crowd so often had plenty of dancing space. P kept jamming into the line and squeezing up the space, but mostly free to move and dance at will.

Without a solid dream, I seem to not have much to record. L came by this morning on her way back from the East Bay. Brought a ceramic medallion that has the word "peace" on it in Hawaiian. We walked downtown for a pastry and coffee.

Nice sunny day with a bit of a breeze and some clouds. We stopped by the bookstore to look through the collections. L wanted a book on dieting and we went into that section of the books. One of the street people was camped out in that part of the shelves. When we came into that area, we sort of caged him in, trapping him with our bodies.

He grew agitated and jumped up suddenly, grabbed his pack and brushed past me. As he did so, he bumped me and ordered me to get out of his way. I told him to take it easy, but that only egged him into repeating his warning about getting out of the way. L was cautioning me not to engage with him. I choose to remain silent and just look him in the eyes. He was not near me, but down the row a bit. He then mumbled something about taking a bath, how the smell was too much for him. He then left for some other part of the store or exited the building.

I noticed how calm I felt throughout the encounter. I had on my new peace medallion. Maybe that was what kept things calm on my part. The street person is one of the people who walks the streets occasionally with his hands over his ears. He's obviously not well, but manages to stay on the streets.

I thought of mentioning the encounter to the bookstore people--how they might be liable if anything were to happen to an unsuspecting customer. I knew who this guy was and was ready to give him space. Someone else may not be so accommodating, especially after he bumps and runs like he did.

Anyway, a bit of early Sunday morning excitement.

Feeling a bit logy and slow today. Two solid nights of dancing relaxes the body and cools the mind, but calls me to sleep more, rest and recover.

So day begins without dreaming, except for the crazy person encounter, which is like a waking dream. Finished the O. Henry stories. Time for a trip to the library and finding the next stuff to read.
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Went to library and picked up Angels & Demons, City of God (Doctorow) and a set of stories by Oates. Went to L's for a light dinner. Stayed through some of 60 Minutes and the Home Building show. Bailed out with Desperate Housewives. TV really has a lot of mindless stuff.

60 Minutes had a story about the philosophy professor who's written a book (67 pages) about bullshit. He's headed for a best seller (BS) and his moment of fame. Simple things make for wondrous possibilities.

I'm cooking in my own juices, or so it seems. I'm feeling major frustration--bound and gagged by my own inactions and lack of discipline. I keep feeling as if I need to mount some structure around my actions and stick to the program. Otherwise, nothing is going to be accomplished. No-thing. Nada. Niltch. Nannypoop.

How to create such a structure? I hesitate, demur, delay, but don't face the mounting certainty of me running out of time. The music is slowing and the dance is coming to its end. I seem to be able to ignore that fact and skate onward across the thinning ice.

Encounter with the street person today makes me think of a possible story--but not a nice one. I can imagine a story (or scenario) where someone takes advantage of the street person's medical situation and literally drives the man crazy. It would be done by an orchestrated set of actions designed to further imbalance him. It's not a nice story, but it's what comes to me and I'm reluctant to write in that direction. It's not nice; not PC. But, it's the first thing that comes to my mind.

Partly, the encounter stirred up some aggression that I'm carrying and that popped to the surface. I don't want to be nice; I want to get even--despite my knowing that his actions were involuntary and out of his control. Maybe there is a story here, but I'm not allowing it to unfold.

And, as always, I'm writing about writing a story--not writing the story itself. The story of my life--not writing the story, but writing about writing about the story. Dreams of Martina--that dance comes to mind--gonna lay that story down.

Tonight, I seem filled with energies. Not focused laser surges, but diffused and cloudy dream-like sensations. Precursors to a set of dreams.