Saturday, November 08, 2003

BUT it is mostly my own dreams I talk of, and that will somewhat excuse me for talking of dreams at all. Everyone knows how delightful the dreams are that one dreams one’s self, and how insipid the dreams of others are. - William Dean Howells

The Night of the Day

It is a school, or another peripheral institution (one at which I do not look directly, as is usual in my dreams) and two are talking and a lady I know only in dreamland describes the conversation we hear as background, and I miss the term, and am interested. “Rhinitis,” she says. “It means it’s arcane; it cannot be understood by those overhearing.”

I go about into other parts of the establishment. The library, most likely. I want to look the word up. I am holding a beer can, half empty. I consider that may cause trouble.

I only looked it up before I wrote this down. Very odd.

The Day Before

A Monday. Home from the Sierras only yesterday. A walk and the Monday weight work this morning, and a quiet afternoon and evening.

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