I’m in conversation with anonymous others—faculty, students, friends—as in my teaching era. Speaking to one creative writing student, I say that “I can’t believe last year is over already, much less this year too.”

I am aware that in my stack of personal drawings is an unusual one. I can recall drawing one in particular, perhaps in an earlier phase of the dream. I drew the picture from the top of the head down, as a miraculously, magically, formed profile emerged. Very realistic, this face, full of emotion and sensitivity. And, as I drew it and examined it, I was surprised to see that it is the face of a youth. He’s about ten years old. This is not the image I set out to draw, but a face that presented itself to me all in burnt sienna.* And I am strangely aware that the face is my own, not as perceived but as most profoundly proprioceived, in this moment, in the moment of drawing, even more accurately than when I was ten years old.

I am aware that something strange has happened and is happening with this image. In the dream I am eager to leaf through the stack of work to show this piece in particular to a colleague at year’s end.

________

*Burnt sienna is a warm reddish-brown pigment derived from heating clay….Among the chief geological properties of the Southern Appalachians where I was born is the “red clay.” My playmates and I universally experienced heavy clumps of “red clay” stuck on our shoes.

Uncle Clyde—who died decades ago—was entertaining me—a man who never in his life entertained, who would not have understood that verb.

I am also on something of a tour, traveling in a small company of artist friends. I want to be sure to get the group down the alley for a quick glance at my sculptures, which remain in a shed in the backyard on Sullivan Street—a shed generally in the area where my beloved childhood sandbox was located.

Then, back down in the country, the room that was Grampaw’s bedroom has been stripped completely bare down to the wallpaper—yellow floral, and Uncle Clyde has served me a pitcher of whiskey… It’s good as I sip it, but he has gone on down to a lower room, previously unknown to me. I am summoned to join him but don’t quite know how to navigate the pitcher full of whiskey… I can’t possibly have finished it off, more than a quart…don’t want to spill it… even have mixed feelings about how it has come to be served to me at all.

It feels risky, clandestine… and still, it is out in the open, in the bare, well-lit floral room…Somehow I feel I must juggle the pitcher carefully downstairs into the refrigerator.

My film-maker friend Peter has suggested that we change our Air France reservations to stay another day and night. More adventure and exploration. I’m not sure that I want to, or if this is feasible. Will the airlines allow it? So I am found in the midst of an unformed choice.

I’m on the street, navigating among crowds.

I’m making my way out amongst the sidewalk and street traffic.

I make it to more than one appointment.

After one lunch, I’m making my way to the next locale when I realize I walked away from the restaurant and left my backpack. I turn to make my way back to retrieve it.

There are some very narrow passages with extremely narrow steps clogged with people. I am no longer sure how to get where the restaurant was. The restaurant was IKE’S. I am aware that I am in New Orleans. I turn to the very friendly people and say, “I’ve never been to New Orleans before.” They are very warm and embracing. “I’ve always wanted to get to New Orleans,” I say. They are happy to hear it.

I pass various unique and intriguing intersections, various architectures.
I have some awareness of the hurricane devastation, but it’s not too pronounced where I am walking.

I think about giving up the search for my backpack, but do not. I look to the broad, blue Gulf sky, scattered clouds.

I find myself roomed with a very young woman. I try to keep my things separate, but with limited success, as she occupies the space considerably. We are not attending the same events at this convocation, not working together, and we have never crossed paths.

I am very involved with proceedings in multiple dimensions, very busy, not much spare time. After one event that has been staged, I pitch in to help clean up—knowing the producer. I am sweeping the floor, trying to contain the debris that is highly charged with static electricity, and is thus not very sweepable.

The producer comes in and we chat. He has produced many events with which I have been associated in my lifetime. We are friendly. He sympathizes with my efforts. Again I return to my room and find that I am now rooming with a different very young woman, but I never see her either. She is more extravagantly occupying the space than the previous young woman. Her stuff is all over the place.

Suddenly I am aware that I must get to Charles DeGaulle airport for my flight back to the USA. I begin a process of calculating—with fuzzy results—when my flight is, how to manage the Paris subway system, namely, how to reverse my route from the airport to return to the airport, and thus how much time I need to allow to get to the airport, when to pack, shower, dress, etc.

I head to a shower down a corridor but cannot determine which one is a men’s shower. Finally, I choose one that looks probable, and go in. And there is another very young woman, a girl, naked from the waist up. She turns to face me. Demurely, and without words, she gently communicates that I am indeed not in the shower room I was looking for, and I leave. I’ve pretty much decided to skip the shower and just wash at the sink back in the room.

I am again into the entanglements of all the stuff. I abandon concerns that I can actually gather my things—it doesn’t really matter anyway. So I just grab what I can and fill my suitcase with books, tools, etc. As my mind continues unsuccessfully to calculate the timing, I come up clearly with one conclusion: I am very likely to be too late to catch my flight. This is on my mind as I head out and engage the subway and ground transportation system link to link, and navigate my way to the airport.

At last I get there. There is something of a carnival atmosphere. A grand amusement park. I recognize some others who I know, though we are not traveling together. They walk along with me as I muse about my predicament, the complexity of events, logistics, my timing. We have a common feeling for the paradoxes and intensities of things as we make our way through corridors, travel escalators, are channeled by the interior geometry. Finally, we reach the ticket agent, and I am resigned to accept my fate. I am at piece [peace?] with somehow figuring out my situation and what to do next. I am not terrified or even all that concerned. C’est la vie.

The agent—a uniformed, very cogently capable, poised European woman—informs me that my flight has been delayed by three hours or so, perhaps more. All is well, she smiles, returning my ticket, encouraging me just to relax and enjoy myself. I accept this, and I turn and part ways with those who have made their way to the gate with me.

At one point, I have interaction with an old friend who I have not seen in a long time. She smiles very brightly as I dance in a zooming motion very quickly into her face.

The dancing continues. Gradually and in some mysterious way in accord with my intention, the circle forms up into a symmetrical distribution of dancers who each have a magical drawing tablet to be held in a coordinated manner up in front of the heart chakra, where a faint red dot begins to glow gradually until a very bright ruby red laser light appears. There must be about forty dancers configured, each and all rendering the permeating ruby point(s) of light.

I am climbing and accelerating and thinking, O boy, I hope there’s a great bridge coming up—while also feeling my childhood phobia of missing bridges.

And indeed, as I accelerate, it turns out just as I most deeply wondered: there is a sharp break—no bridge, only the void–and I strangely accelerate again.

Next thing, I am in my car bobbing around in the water, thinking, Well, I’m sure that plunge was observed and help is on the way. I’m not panicked.

Still, I calculate that this excellent floating might at any moment reach a point of catastrophic mass, and car and I will sink like a stone.

Next, I have indeed been pulled out of the abyss, car and all, and I am in a receiving area for people who plunge in their cars off the edge of the non-bridge into the abyss. There are workers in yellow rubber suits and rescue folks sort of sauntering around.

I am out of the car, and stridently declaring, “I’m going to sue the hell out of somebody for this!” The folks around me nod as if they’ve heard it before.

I realize that I am fine, actually, no worse for the experience. I am a fit, healthy woman. And the child growing in me, in my early phase of pregnancy, is no doubt fine as well. Actually, I’m feeling rather robust and invigorated by the whole experience.

am coordinating production activities

am disturbed by memory that i have murdered a woman, chopped her body in pieces, sealed pieces in concrete

busy busy busy

remember my crime    confident that i cannot be found out

busy busy busy — all is well

remember my crime    worry i will somehow be found out

busy busy busy

remember i cannot get out of this

* * *
am dangling on a rope on the side of a skyscraper

am being terrorized

the plan, after terrorizing me more thoroughly, is to cut the rope

News On the Hour Chicago 05-01-11

This is a thoroughly detailed dream. I’m at the control board at WKPT in Kingsport, Tennessee. The situation transcends historical/chronological time. I am my present age, and the situation is atemporal. I’m ready to begin a music program. Everything is in good order, organized, ready to roll. I discover a piece of copy with a poem on it, a prose poem, and somehow I choose to read this poem rather than clicking on the news-on-the-hour feed from NBC. I feel confident and pleased with my decision.  It is not clear that I have written the poem–more that I have discovered it, and add a little element of improv. After giving the formal station-ID, I calmly state, “Here is the news of the hour today, fresh off the wire.” And I read the short poem through. Then, I pause, concerned the piece may be challenging for listeners not expecting it, so I state that I will run through it one more time, and I do that. It is a good and creative piece. I am pleased with my decision to pre-empt NBC, and I have that familiar warm glow of broadcasting something that feels right. I feel poised and confident.

manymost of the people know each other andor of each other
as they are gathering

i am burning and dodging shapeshifting elusively omnipresent
configuring vanishing swirling twirling
hurling mudras

a thickening crowd

i don’t want them all to know all my secrets
that could be dangerous for anyone

the arena has expanded from any possible institutional space
to take over a whole big city block sidewalks filling in

i am smackdabinthemiddle of the street boldly facing down cars
with my outheld palm stopping them and directing them where to park
some seem reluctant to stop and plausibly ready to run me down
but i stand my ground and it all begins to form up allandeverything

it is clear that it is time for some kind of musical performance involving everyone
and all eyes are on me to conduct direct give the downbeat

i stand there in the middle of it all gathering in the energies and attentions
discerning the moment of peak readiness and propitiousness and rhythm
and somehow searching deeply within for the moment to begin

it is an unwieldy crowd

one camper suddenly takes a headlong dive across a table spread
sort of a foodfight dive over the top and an ugly edge

i attend settling it all down

and farandwide a stirring silence settles in
ready

and a one-two…

nothing happens

i start again

and a one-two-three-four…

everyone is looking at me…
i start all over… more quickly this time…

and a one-two-three-four-five-six-seven…

and someone calls out to me, gently, laughing….
you can’t just keep starting all over John…