Sitting in the coldish pre-dawn, dreaming of a summer sun, I am writing things down before they oxidize and turn into morning light.
I am dreaming of the grapefruit I will pick when it is’t dark anymore.
Last night, I dreamt that I was due to fly to Paris, but everyone around me was running late, planes were veering wildly around in the sky, and I had three pieces of luggage instead of my personal limit of two, making me disgusted with myself. I was in a busy hotel, and there were people who only had the slightest to do with me in my room, milling around, having conversations.
Bill was there, wandering around holding a sock, wearing very strange khakis, the kind that go up way too high on the waist and have to be held up with suspenders, and he was fixated on finding some trinket. I couldn’t find my records of human time; if there was a watch or a clock around I couldn’t see it, and I couldn’t locate my ticket to check our departure time.
The air was full of the humming of friendly conversation, the random milling around, the crazed planes and taxis outside. I experimented with losing my temper, and also with losing my agenda. The latter was significantly more enjoyable, and in fact once I gave up on my unprovable assertion that I was late for a flight, I had a wonderful time.
My little world, my machine, continues to build itself in front of my eyes, using me as a tool. I feel what we all feel when this happens, stupidly grateful. When the sun peeks over the mountains in a few minutes, I’ll put on a ridiculous frock coat and go outside to watch. I’ll take a few grapefruit from the old tree by the pool, and think about how lucky I am, and get back to work.
Ah, here comes the sun; 7:09 a.m.
Or, more precisely, there drop the Rincon Mountains, out of the way of my view of our star from this particular location on Terra.
A little bird told me yesterday that I might be enjoying a Ferry visit to Boston this early Fall… and this is very distracting news. I mustn’t daydream.
“Next time is the best time, we all know”