It’s a matter of knowing winter

In the dream that was not a dream the day appeared white and blanketed. We sunk our feet in, hers bare, mine clothed. She danced dangerously across the horizon, a practiced sleepwalker of exterior realms, while I, a caped neophyte in this act of incremental flight caught the edge of the air.



[With thanks to Natasha Maidoff for the pleasures of a sudden friendship and snow-scape image making, and the late Robert Kroetsch for the title of this post]

Box in the Clouds

Dream Log Feb. 9th

I am in an elevator, heading for the observatory.  There are delineated layers within the elevator space, like realms with an inner and outer area. They are separated by a sheath of thick clear vinyl-like material. I am in the inner circle. With each floor more people enter. As the Elevator moves upwards and upwards, miles high towards the sky it is becoming more and more claustrophobic  – crowded and shrinking. Teetering in the sky its doors open again and a naked infant girl is handed into the elevator. Someone takes the child from her father’s hands and places her into the center of the elevator’s most inner realm. Everyone recedes into the corners.