Good morning — Outside the foghorns are going like a bassoon symphony, like a bass chorus.
This is one of those difficult mornings, where the gremlin voices are scampering all over inside my head, under my skin, through the tender places — where I hear, You’re almost 40. What have you done? What can you hope to accomplish? Wouldn’t it be better just to keep sleeping?
In my dream, there was a classroom filled with people, huge but not theater style; some students were in chairs, others were sitting on the floor. There were bookshelves around the edges of the room, stuffed with books, unorganized, homely. We had a Peggy Phelan reader, and were reading a chapter about ontology. I came in late, didn’t have a reader, wasn’t prepared. Maybe we were at my old high school, but no one in the room was familiar to me, and it wasn’t a high school class — this was more advanced.
