It seems like we’ve been talking about dreams a lot lately, and even in my dreams we are talking about dreams. And it’s making it very hard to decide which are real and how often it is I’m sitting down with you. Until this morning when I discovered the Broadway bridge is actually closed, I though I’d dreamt that sleepy drive where I got all mixed up and turned around and sat in the parking lot behind a Wendy’s for a while and cried. But now that I’m saying this it still doesn’t sound real.
I’m interested lately in the claim we can stake on someone else’s body. How something which could not be less our own can yet still get tied up with possessive nouns and visceral memories. How is it I can know more intricately the pattern of your back than my own? Is it possible, someone even as vain as myself, has studied another even more so? In the morning I am surprised by how well I fit into your empty spaces. Before I am even in my body for the day, it already knows you.
I don’t get afraid anymore in the ways I used to. Sometimes I wonder if I used up all the worry on last year. It makes me tired to think too far ahead. And I’ve learned no amount of anything is an insurance policy against everything that will happen. If the bridge is closed, then the bridge is closed. There is nothing to do but turn around.