b r e a t h i n g   r o o m

19 May 98

My dreams have been
unusually vivid and disturbing lately. One, a sex dream of the graphic sort I almost never have (much as I may have tried to conjure them up one adolescent bedtime after another), but mechanical, in a frightening way, a hydraulic sucking, reminding me the next day of those red-liquid filled glass dipping birds that were so popular in the early '70s.

Then, more recently, another dream with a similar detached mechanical dynamic, but free of the overt sexuality. A baby, neither male nor female, cries alone in a papoose. Somehow I know that only I can deal with it. (I am reminded of the other night at Yoshi's for Pharoah Sanders when a toddler walked by behind his parents, crying. I caught his eye and stopped his crying until he remembered what was up.) I take the baby under the arms out of the papoose, flip it over and settle it back down head first. The I immediately take it out and flip it over again. And again, and again.

yester morrow
day one
first lines

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