So-- who is the kak-brained little cracker whose antics kept me away from my journal for eleven hours?
I'm going to feed his tiny 'nads to the coyotes-- while they are still attached!
Tuesday morning, eleven plump geese flew southward over my house at treetop height, honking furiously as the sky was turning grey. The day turned very cold. The geese must have known. Yesterday, there was rain. By afternoon, the clouds had begun to break up in the west, and bright sunlight flooded the wet woodlands and meadows, and all the trees and grasses glittered. For several minutes, rain continued to fall through the sunshine, the drops gradually diminishing in size until the air was full of bright mist, swirling in the soft breeze. Then, last night, the deer passed by again. I didn't see them, but I heard their hooves on the pavement down at the end of the block. Had I gone out a few minutes earlier, I might have caught sight of them, as the night was clear and the moon not far past full. Today, I saw that many dogwood trees at sightly lower elevations have already begun to put out pink blossoms. The first of the camellias to bloom are already dropping red petals on the walk in front of my house.
This has been the strangest of winters. Perhaps that accounts for the dreams. I don't remember the details of these dreams, but I wake with vague images of rushing streams, long roads, and on hills above them, twisting city streets lined by dense buildings draped with oriels, like San Francisco displaced to the mountains and bent into odd shapes. One vivid dream image remains: I am at a party in a big Victorian house, and a boy of five or six is vomiting into a toilet as I hold him above it. My older brother, not as he is now, but as he was when he was at nineteen or twenty, walks by the open door of the bathroom and chuckles when he sees me. When the boy is done vomiting, I go to flush the toilet and see that it is full of small flowers. I have no idea what any of these odd dream images mean, if they mean anything at all.
I still have the feeling that something in my subconscious is trying to make its way to the surface. Whatever it is continues to elude me. Sometimes I find one of the cats staring at me, and realize that I have been woolgathering and that my mind is entirely blank; I have no wool. I wonder what the cats know that I don't?