Last night I dreamed that we were in bed asleep, and I felt a cat walk over me and settle by our heads, a creamy-orange tom cat. it had snuck in from outside, a cat we didn't know. I was mostly asleep, happy and excited to have a cat visitor, also thinking I should wake up and do something about it because it was an unknown cat, might have fleas or ringworm or something. but it was snuggling into N's head and N was smiling, so I just cuddled in too. 

I had to throw out one of my favourite potplants. It got red spider mite. It'd had a rough time since I brought it home - I'd tried it in different spots, then repotted it, it seemed to be getting better and there was even a new shoot coming though - then it just started to look sad again, and the leaves were yellowing very quickly. I looked closer and discovered the whole plant was covered in a series of very fine webs. There were even one or two of my hairs caught in the webs. And tiny spiders were crawling all over.The undersides of those big, broad leaves were absolutely covered in spider-mite eggs along the midribs and veins. I thought about treating it but it seems that they get into the soil, and I have been trying not to use any pesticides - so, out it went. Now I miss it! What will the mites do, once they've killed it? Will they find something else to live on in amongst the rubbish, in the dark down the bottom of the chute?

I remembered - I am remembering pieces from Of Grammatology. 

waking in the night, husband studying...I'm hungry, my shoulder hurts, the world is empty and hard... he slides open the door to the laundry to put the washing on for the morning, the house fills with warm air and the sound of crickets, and then the kettle sings....



I think when we get home I want to go visit the pohangina river. 

I rode to work to tidy up a few things and rode home, arriving with the first fat drops of rain . My next door neighbour who has a cold was sitting in the circle between our buildings, under the climbing gym, with her baby on a blanket. tiny stones coming off the asphalt, baby moving legs like a little frog.

---

feeding myself again, slowly but quickly as possible. well is 2/3rds full. wondering what to read next - a whole list of stuff but none of it seems quite 'right'. for some reason I want to read Rousseau's Confessions. I open it and find I remember the beginning, but I don't know how much of it I might have read,... definitely not all of it, and not sure why I want to now. It's not on my list of should-read-right-now stuff - actually I had better be reading poetry. 

"I look into his eyes and feel my
awareness expand to contain what he
will tell me, as if what he says is a
photograph of landscape and in my
mind will be a painting of "Hill,"
"Part of the Cliffs," "Purple Hills."

These words are the opposite of
verisimilitude."

...

"If existence is vibration, everything
creates sound - trees, heart cells.

Listeners, like water, resonate dread
in a blue vase, in glasses.

I send out an emotion of warmth,
welcome, the way scientists erase
sound with sound."

Mei-mei Berssenbrugge. From "Red Quiet". Concordance (with Kiki Smith). N.p.: Kelsey St Press,  2006. 

One dream about being in a group of women in a halfway house.

Another where I was in a huge home, with this huge family - most were adults, dark-haired, but there were some kids too. I knew there was something wrong. Soon I was talking to someone down the end of one room and I saw in the corner, behind a wardrobe, the patriarch sexually abusing one of the little kids. The others were just looking away, trying not to know. I stepped back so it was out of my line of sight too, but I realised I had to do something. I yelled 'NO', hoping this would be enough to tell him it couldn't continue, without creating a dangerous situation. It worked - the old guy stepped out from corner, away from the kid, fearing he was busted.

I knew then this was endemic in this family, that everyone knew about it on some level or other but it was never spoken about, that he had done it to lots of the adults when they were kids, that others may be doing it too, there was an unspoken law not to talk about this.

I started going around the house protesting to people, saying I had seen it, it couldn't continue, something had to be done. I knew there wasn't enough evidence and that what I'd seen would be questioned. I found I couldn't exactly remember what he was wearing and in my memory it was starting to look like someone else. But I felt sure of what I had seen, too. Most people blanked me or told me to go away but I found one woman in her forties, sad and listless, and from her reaction I knew it had happened to her and she knew exactly what I was talking about. I grabbed her in a headlock and brought her with me to look for other people who could help. We ended up down in the basement/computer room where there were a couple of rangy nephews lying on couches, outsiders in the family. I started talking to them and I knew they knew what I was talking about too. I figured that if I could get them to talk I might have a chance.

when I think of my poppa and the things he gave me I feel uneasy, I can't feel his love like this. the ring that I lost is there, not the right sort of presence. I imagine him knowing where it is and that's ambiguous. but one night I imagined very vividly that he was speaking to me. we had a long conversation, and it was not ambiguous any more, it was joyous and peaceful, total love, like when we said goodbye.

I don't remember the details of that conversation, and day-to-day his gifts to me bring mixed feelings - not about him, but just that I can't find him there. but today I remembered how much he LOVED the hoodie that we gave him. He wore it all the time. I have a photo of him in it. He just totally adored it. that is much easier. 

the horizontal journey is... across the dried floodplain towards a new familiar home
(the honey cells are a layover)

the vertical journey is... down into the sea-garden, pythia

the temporal journey is... earlier during later, burial excavation eruption burial, vertical and horizontal, staying here and going there, a wave.

when I say under the sea I mean in my stomach, where we can't see... in the garden....

unable to sleep, unable to write. I miss my friend in the UK, wish she was here with me playing cards in the back of the soul bar.

there are things I want to describe - Johnny the drummer, with his long, fine Asian hair, watching his teenage kid ripping it up on the drums. some nights the kid races through, especially if they have a weak singer, and some nights he's brilliant, falling slowly into another world with the bassist, where they see the same horizons and the same suns, and they draw them out with sound, pulling the band into weird orbit, the audience too, till everyone's inside that orange space, blue land cresting behind. Johnny sits and listens, same expression every time.

honestly, I want to describe how he gave me his number and I felt welcomed, and then when I went back there with friends he wasn't so friendly again, and I thought I'd maybe offended him by saying something typically ang moh. or it was that he meant the number to mean something else and I was dumb, or it was just... chance, a nothingness.

I wouldn't put this down because - what does it mean, this nothingness? it's an ego bubble, floating through, blocking the arterial flow. or else it's something so finely woven - threads of offering, the offering lain down on the ground and the other party touches it but does not pick it up, steps around it - something has gone wrong, the welcome is not right.

nothing is right here. guest of the master who eats the servant's food. 

I'm still trying to wash stuff up from the semester, with some urgency. Head still full of stuff that needs to be done Now for others, and I'm stalling, spinning my wheels as I try to both get that done and also make the shift back to my writing mind. Forward and back at the same time.

I'm sitting on the couch with the lights out. I've opened a window - can hear crickets and cars, people in the circle below. If I lean my head out I can hear a kind of soft blanket of conversations from people and TVs in the apartments opposite. It's so quiet. For months there has been construction going on at work, and lately they are painting our apartment blocks at home. The cherry-pickers have enormous engines that run a constant loud irregular noise. Before the painting there were weeks of waterblasting, of all the paths and all the covered walkways - the hoses run from tank-trucks which make the same kind of engine noise. And before the water-blasting was renovation on the apartments below and above us - tearing up the tiles and retiling, etc. So it's been pretty inescapable noise pollution since some time last year.

It's very hard to get away here. One can't easily go to an outdoor space (usually too hot) or a public indoor space (almost always crowded) to get peace. So for the night to just sort of fall open like this is beautiful.

But the night is often like this - quiet, open - we just keep the windows closed for the airconditioning, so we never feel it.

It's like this, living on the equator in the 21st century. You're just trying to keep it all out, secure your structure. It's not novel to notice this, on paper, but when you're living it it becomes invisible. It's just what you do to try to make things work. But sooner or later you have to wonder what would happen if it all stopped - the painting, the waterblasting, the construction, the airconditioning, the insecticide fogging, the leaf-blowing.

A green half-sleep would fall over us. Fevers would creep into the dozing. Moss would slip over every surface. Vines would begin work at the cracks and corners of walls. The drains would clog with thick, fat leaves, and the monsoon would have its merry way all over the roads and rooves, opening structures piece by piece.

As soon as I opened the window a striped mosquito flies in to try to bite me. They move so fast, designed to evade a slapping hand or tail. I wonder what it carries that I can't see. And does a mosquito feel different in itself when it's got dengue or malaria? Are they more hungry or more frantic?

Life goes on, doesn't it? Maybe changing uncontrollably quickly, in waste and mismanagement, devolving and fragmenting, but it's so hungry, it goes on. 

I dream I'm in bed with this guy, a freelance writer in the community. We're kissing but he stops to talk because he's not so into it. He starts telling me what he does with his day, his writing routine, and he wants to hear about mine. I realise he's trying to get himself aroused. 'No really, how do you spend your actual time? What do you do?'

I realise I only have one honest answer. 'Admin.'

That's the end of that.

--

A dream where I'm remembering the different places I've lived, trying to think about the kind of place I like, in conversation with my dad. We're at this casual afternoon party in a rambling farmhouse yard. We talk about the houses by the sea, that it was sometimes so lonely and frightening to see huge uncontrollable waves coming in, to know that something was wrong with the tides and the weather and that the tiny house on the edge could be swept away. I wonder if there was any place where I've looked out the window and felt peaceful, that everything was okay. And I think no, the reason these places are available for me to rent is because the owners have moved on, because something was wrong, and the weather's fucked everywhere now anyway. My dad says what about those places owned by Tina, were they a bit rough were they?

And I say actually no, they were nice, scruffy but they had sunlight and gardens, open windows, flowers in the house. A bit like this place.

We go close to the stereo at the centre of the party to hear the music. I put my ear close to the stereo and it's tango music. My dad's right there, we're communicating without necessarily speaking about the complexity of the music, its structures and features. I know these rather than him but he understands what I'm explaining.



Then I'm in a train. There is a young guy there who has trouble speaking, he might be retarded. He's big and strapping, I want to kiss him but I think I should think twice, it will mean that we end up getting married. My mother is there watching, too, and she will disapprove. He's trying to ask me something - eventually I get it. He's asking if I can make him a sweat-shirt jacket that would zip on to the collar he's made for himself. He already has one jacket that he's made but he wants a different one. He shows me the collar and it's really inventive and neatly made - it has compartments front and back, a hood, everything zips on and off. It's great and I realise he's really bright in an unusual way. I want to make the jacket and I want to hug him and kiss him. He's showing me he his photos on his camera and I realise he's a time-traveller - the photos are late 19th, early 20th C and he's in them. While he's showing me I realise my mother is right there taking photos of his camera as it flashes up photos and dates. She's collecting evidence in a hostile sort of way. 

grading finished, except for the wash-up. end of the school year. late nights over. I offered my boss a fist fight and he patted me on the arm. this evening I napped. more sleep now, then time to get the house back in order. 

I dreamed I was back at home, and a friend was telling me about her wheat-free diet. I said I didn't do that and she laughed and said 'we know', indicating the 20 pounds of weight I'd put on (dreaming in imperial). She said something else snarky and then I spent a long time in an elaborate and deeply reflective explanation of why I needed an apology from her, and what kind of apology I needed. She laughed and brushed it off. We were at the back of a house, going up to a sundeck (and swimming pool?) on top of a garage - in the garage was some kind of boat or car, ready to go somewhere. 

arguing with my boss. chucking a sad about doing just one more thing. he's doing too many things too. 

In my dream, S's dog was a golden retriever. She said no, she hadn't left him to me, I didn't need to look after him.

Typing on the way here - 'sablecurr'

I dreamed that I was back at home, catching up with S's friends about her death. Someone said - yes, you've always seemed sweet and kind - we think she wrote about you in this poem. There's this character Sue that we thought was probably you - she is reaching her hand out to pat a dog but the more she wants to pat it the more the dog backs away!

I want to explain that it's the opposite, that I patted a dog and it wanted more and more until it had to be sent away because it was going crazy with anxiety. But I know that sounds stupid and arrogant so I don't say anything.

It turns out though that S has been misdiagnosed, and she's not dead at all. We are in her house and I get to see her again. I'm so relieved and she seems quite well, but we know she is going to die soon. I think this is my opportunity to ask the things or talk about the things we didn't get the chance to talk about. I ask her about the dog, and she says yes, the dog was much more difficult to look after than she let on to anybody, so she'd hidden it or sent it away. Then all I can think of to ask is whether she has any reassurance for other friends. And I realise I'm not being very helpful, so I start to do the dishes.

TV crews have shown up outside and left piles of present boxes and balloons on the front lawn - it's her birthday, but really they want to interview her about her miraculous situation. My stepdad comes in to ask whether she wants to do this and he's impatient and demanding. Yes or no, chop-chop! Instantly I'm anxious and I bark back at him. I realise this is not helpful, so I calm myself down and take over the conversation. Would she like me to go and get rid of them? Yes.

So I go out and it's TV1 and TV3. TV3 is there. I tell them she doesn't want to spend her last minutes like this and they start to scatter. Mark Sainsbury looks at me and says - we agree, most of us didn't want to be here doing this, it's a terrible idea. The producers pushed us.

They leave. I go in and we have just quiet empty time together, with nothing to do.

When I've pushed one of my students really hard and they stay with it, and I read their final draft, and it's GOOD - I get so excited for them - I want the world to recognise them RIGHT NOW. And happy for me, too, that it's been worth it, and that I had something to do with it, telling them not to compromise, holding out for something better.

I dreamed last night that a friend came to stay at our place. It was messy, we hadn't cleaned up, and I was anxious about knickers on the floor and so on, trying to kick them out of the way. I was worried that his wife would be uncomfortable. I showed him the view out the window - the beautiful trees in the light-well, and while we were looking I saw a monkey - 'it's the first time I've seen one here!'

Then I realised there was no glass, and there were several gliding monkeys and small flying squirrels leaping around the place. They were coming inside freely, approaching us. A little squirrel landed on my hand and began to purr loudly as I patted its sleek body - they had no fear at all. Untrammelled delight. 

G's receptionist rang me today.

'Just calling about your appointment with G.'

'...I don't have an appointment with G.'

'You wrote an email this morning to ask for one?'

'It must have been somebody else with my name.'

Memory of the dream where he says 'don't bullshit, you've been calling me on this number for years.'
But I hadn't. The receptionist apologised and hung up. I sent a text to let G know this had happened. I justified it like - well, if it were him, with his crackpot thinking, he'd think it was a sign. And besides which it's a disturbance on the one side and a confidentiality breach on the other, so he should know, so they can make sure it doesn't happen again.

But it wasn't a sign, it was just... a painful thing. Someone with my name is writing for an appointment, and no doubt getting one. Not that he ever said I COULDN'T come back - it just... became clear. For stupid reasons that make no sense. So when the receptionist called it was like the ground opened up again. There I am falling back into my stupid transference hell. I don't understand, why are you doing this to me? I don't understand. 

'Oh. Ok,' he wrote back. 'Yeah I was curious. K thanks for the update.'

'I guess R should respond via the means people contact, or at least verify, because it could cause problems.' I don't understand, why are you doing this to me? I don't understand. 

' Yeah I'm not in the office so I don't know what happened. Apologies for the confusion.'

I hate you. I hate you and would like to bodily destroy you, probably with a chainsaw.

L wrote to me last night to say that C had overdosed while on the phone to her and was now in hospital. I feel a curious inertia about this. I could see it coming a while back so I'd let the distance grow, becoming a 'bad friend' in some respects.

L was on the adrenaline rollercoaster, high on the magnitude of saving someone's life, the deferred fear and panic, anger as it hit her what C is doing to herself and her loved ones, and the love and pain for C herself, for what she's enduring that is taking her here.

I could see L so badly wanting to do the right thing, and then wanting the happy ending for having done the right thing. But C was so drugged up that she couldn't even remember the phone call, and had no idea how come the fire department had turned up. She's in for a long stay.

Although I feel a certain kind of 'nothing' about this I've been thinking about it on and off all day. I feel this vague sickness and a glimmer of opening for my friend, a desire to reach out to her, and then it gets squashed. Is there a way to tell her that I care about her, that I want her to be well?

But I don't want to talk to the C who would do this to herself. I don't want to see it or know about it. I've met that C before and she is vicious. Lately she has been holding the keys to the body and is in the process of starving the body, abusing it, killing it off if she can. I can't speak to her and pretend that is not who I am talking to.

And what do I have to say to that person? It is not a conversation I am qualified for. Yet as I write this I think - well, that is her argument, it's the one she's trapped in, the one she's having with her doctors and shrinks and so on. Maybe I can leave it to them, and still just give her - the whole C - that one small message, that I care about her and wish her well. 

last night I dreamed I was at a beach in a remote town at home. I've dreamed about this place before. It's something like my mother's hometown but more remote, on a peninsula that seems almost entirely made of sand, and the beachscape is steep and grand, like somewhere only ships would land. There's a thin row of houses up on the peninsula. 

last night I was in the water, trying to wade my way up onto the beach, and each time I made some progress a wave would come and drag me back. I was making a herculean effort to break through that invisible barrier to get to the point where it would finally be easier. 

an inward deviation of the eyes

meast