Yes, I'm well aware there's a lack of meaty content on this blog right now -- I don't mean to overwhelm you with updates about my writing, but that's just the basket I've been putting my eggs into over the past month or so.

I had a dream last night that left me feeling very disoriented and out-of-sorts when I woke up. I have this type of dream on occasion -- I blame it on the foods I eat, and the late hours at which I eat them. But it involved me being on a boat (a short cruise on the Columbia river, between North Portland and Southern Washington, only it seemed to take much longer than the few minutes that commute actually takes). There were three levels to this boat: an upstairs, where one could bask in the warmth of the sunlight and picnic with other passengers; a main level, with a bar made out of old oak (there weren't many people on this floor); and a downstairs, that had a gigantic, labyrinthine swimming pool with weird partitions and angles. If you didn't want to fall into the twisty-turny swimming pool, you had to hug the walls and hold on to a brass railing. It was very dark down there, humid and dank (with a greenish, algaeish tint to the room), and if you looked out the window (even though the top level opened up to a sunny day), you'd see a terrible storm.

I lost the people I was with, and spent a lot of the ride winding exhaustedly through all three floors. On the top level, I sat on a bench to rest my feet, and -- and -- Joni Mitchell came and sat down beside me. She turned out to be a spastic basket case, not quite all there, looking off into space, babbling about nothing, breaking into song whenever the mood hit her. Then she seemed to vanish, and I can't remember much beyond that.