This morning, not yet awake, I was writing us a sentence. I changed it as I got closer to opening my eyes. I could just catch the ends, loose threads that I wanted to tie off and bring with me. Bring with me and set the finished cloth into our laps to admire. No, not admiring, the motivation is different. Let’s talk about that:
I’d like to contribute to something that I’d like to contribute to. I’d like to work together on something we can work together on. The sentence was forming and I could just catch the ends of it, a dream and the logic of the dream were one:
I’d been driving fast and couldn’t see. We had just left someplace and the place we had left was still with us. A truck passes, it’s dark, we are moving quickly, and I can only see corners of things. I can’t trust the road. I am driving. We were all moving in the same direction, but I am unconvinced. I keep going for a time, not able to see and then turn off. The car spins around at the bottom of a hill and stops. No one is hurt. Not even the car. We’d stopped going quickly.
This is a lot like Cranio. Dreaming is the loom, it’s what we have been and what we are now and what we could be. Our sentence emerges from the dark, we trust something we can not understand:
The hem of her blue coat disturbs the dust on the stair, forming again in columns of sunlight in the glass of water on the table by the door.
Love, Molly