OCTOBER STORMS.

I'M TRYING TO IMPORT WRITINGS FROM OTHER PLACES IN MY ELECTRONIC LIFE AND IT SEEMS TO ME THAT IT'S ALWAYS MORE TROUBLE THAN JUST WRITING IT DOWN IN ONE PLACE ALL THE TIME.... using perhaps paper and pencil.
I learned to write cursive penmanship with a pencil in the second grade.
But today I 'write' with a remembered dream that I have had twice now since coming here in 2006. The first time I had it my mother was visiting for Thanksgiving and Adam and Kevin were here with her. That sorta freaked me out a tad; but not till later.  Then I had the dream again after Adam died but before my mother died.  I thought about the dream right away though still not sure of the relevance to her dying. After all she was 90 for God's sake. Should I be ashamed to say there a a few people I wish were dead instead? Now or still?
So now third time dream in a cold October dark morning and Mom is dead--who is next?
Here are the notes mashed together.


     Sooo, today I type- or is the correct to 'say' : I   'wordprocess' ?
I love the language in that way when we use the word 'say' without uttering a sound we use I 'write' while we finger poke @ square buttons...I love  to read Christopher Hitchens for this language thing. He's so smart.
I also can't get the fucking printer to print so Im typing this in an email to myself. Why not use a pencil? The printer will scan and  copy but nothing from inside the iMac can get out.  I like to hold page in hand while I read.
 I digress.
     So the dream is really pretty nothing in the plain telling. I dream that I am in my Kentucky kitchen, at the sink--my station in life-- and as I wash whatever item it is in my hand I look up and out the window and see my father behind the wheel of a low rider---I want to say Bonneville but I have no clue. It's one of those wide rocking boats of a car and it has no seat belts and wide slippery seats. A dark green car. You could put six kids in the back seat. Easily.  I continue to digress.   iDigress on the iMac that wontPrint.
   So theres's Dad and he's just idling in the back field way in the corner behind the clump of big Norway spruces.  I want to put a Christmas star on one of those spruces this year.  He's smoking a Camel.  Now mind you, my father's been dead since 1996. Never- the -less I get all excited and grab the hand towel and put my shoes on and beat feet down the kitchen stairs all tripping and panting into the back field.  Just as Dad see's me he guns it, burning loud rubber in spite of the fact that there is tall grass and no surface to burn rubber on.  And then he's gone; screaming fishtailing out onto Eastin Rd like he knew where he was going. And he's telling me wordlessly he's close by but it's not time and he's not ready.
     And then I wake up and say hmm "who is Dad here for?"
    And then I wonder "why do I think that?"
   And then I think "fuck I know too much!"

Im not sure why this bothers me. I understand the irrelevance and unfathomability of any surety with dreams. I'm supersticious anyway.
I'm not sure what the unease is. There arent really any big deals going on anywhere.
I name this phantom anxiety, and I take the dogs out.
But I feel Im missing something and there is something right on the tip of my brain tongue and in one minute it's gonna come to me.
And given that Im such a professional sleepologist I KNOW how the four stages of sleep occur and for how long and when REM jumps up and Alpha Deltha Theta BIS etc. Are you getting this?
Not  that knowing  this makes me more sure that I know something is trying to worm into my consciousness but it does. Squirels in the amygdala.

this is a compilation ( such a french word) of three short notes and one (dream) early morning journal entry