It's never too late.

And I mean flushed in the non-bathroom sort of way

Weighing my pockets with stones of longing

Especially when those days are Saturday and Sunday.

They always come crawling back

This morning I had a wonderful dream. It takes place in a sunny, lakeless, deciduous version of my family's traditional vacation spot in the boundary waters. It is warm and comfortable, an autumn day in the woods, and I am blissful and objective. I have a camera, and I am taking pictures of the beautiful scenery, in artsy detail. My older cousin, a black sheep known for trouble-making, has scraped his knees, and I take him into our cabin to fix him up--wash the wound first, then bandage. An older friend of mine nods and smiles his approval at my methods, and my cousin feels at ease. Our cabin has no roof and no walls, but many posts like tree trunks and tiny cabinets and cozy hiding places. Like a den, or a nest.

I am taking more pictures down the trail with my little camera that makes quick mechanical noises, and someone hollers that I should come back and look at this magnificent tree, the oldest, largest, loveliest tree in the woods. That is where our cabin is--the rooms just pieces of furniture tucked amongst the branches. The tree is wide and expansive, shaped like a giant flat stump, like a miniature wooden plateau, with many moderately sized golden trunks sprouting up from it, creating a framework like a new house under construction. I come back to take some more pictures of it, and to feel the smooth surface of the trunks, warm from the afternoon sun. Ducking under a lower branch, I join the few other people who are inside the tree, all going about their own projects, in different irregularly shaped compartments of the elaborate but spacious hideaway.

It feels like we are a little woodland family, though a motley crew--comprised of myself, my cousin, perhaps my sister, and a few male friends that we see only in the summer. It feels like sherwood forest.

I stop taking pictures, and follow a labyrinth of a corridor through rays of sunlight that reveal sparkling particles of dust within the tree. I come to a ladder that leads a short distance upward to a small hole, framed by twisting branches. Squeezing through the hole, I sprawl out in the small space above, where K is lying, wearing dark blue. The roof of this cubby is low, and we are stretched out next to each other; there is barely space for anything besides our own bodies. I'm close to him and feel a strong impulse to crawl into his arms, but I can hardly sit up. Moments after I have spilled into this place from below, my heart beating fast from the effort and his presence, he rolls over and passionately buries his head against my chest, kissing the top of my right breast. It is only now that I am aware of my own clothing, a tunic of sorts which is cut low and wide at the neck so that everything from my shoulders to just above my nipples is exposed. All smooth skin of uniform color, a pale golden tone that reflects the light on the tree that cradles us. I wrap my arm around him, and tangle my right hand in his hair.

[A bit of history: K and I have known each other since we were babies, but have never seen each other for more than two weeks, never outside of this place, and only in the summer. He has a beautiful face, and a contagious and confident sense of humor. This last summer my sister told me that K is in love with me, and she kept locking me out of the cabin so I would have to sleep at his place. Have heard nothing from him since August. I sent him an e-mail this morning which he probably will never receive, just to see how he's doing.]

I am sick today. Didn't sleep too well at first from coughing. Hopefully going this afternoon to pick up the HIV test results.

Two good things from today: Eva slipped me a piece of paper during class encouraging me to submit something to the Polyglot lit. magazine from French 309 last spring. And Theo invited me to the pro musica concert tomorrow. Things are looking slightly up despite all the work I must do this week. Still, I think I ought to stick to my no sex idea for a little while at least, since I feel like it might already be changing my perspective. It's been less than a week, lordy. I'm starting to ask big questions. They're distracting, and near impossible to find answers for. Maybe with time. I just hope I can get past the distraction stage and maybe find that I can focus on my work? For once in my dreamer cloudy-headed life...

In Swiss Lit, Sarala mentioned that for post-modernists, identity is unnecessary. If that were the case, I'd feel a lot better about myself, constantly drifting along just enjoying myself by watching all the things that happen around me, and feeling that by observing I am changed by them... I think I was meant to live in a half-sleep state. Where no response is required but reflection is essential.

Ugh. Too pensive.

Dreams and daydreams and fog at 2:10 p.m.