Saturday, December 27, 2008

Yearbook (12.4)

It’s always the sun and someone hammering, and all we do, jobwise, is haunt, as if in solution in the air. Emmett dreamed he got in a fistfight with me. A maple bud has begun to open, sticky and yellow, by the hotdog mural. Receiving extraterrestrial signals, getting invited to the right parties . . . A drawstring labeled PULL in ballpoint on copper withdraws the wool curtain. This morning I dreamed it was a day so clear that if I stood on the base of a streetlamp I could see all the way across western Washington to the Cascades—a bountiful panorama of red and brown mountains and shining patches of snow and sharp blue sky—and I was nervously getting ready to take a bus across those mountains to see Michaela—which of course turned out to be true, though I proceeded to sleep till ten on a grey, rainy morning. There seemed to be a lot of strange space between our answers, and I suspected myself of amnesia before I suspected her of sleeptalking.

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