I dreamed last night of making friends with a lot of people I don't know, and sweet little manateesthat let me pet them, and Stephen. He'sbeen a big black presence in my dreamsof the two nights previous. Which i don't really mind; he's always in the dreams with the richest colors. I don't know whether that is cause or effect.

At the moment, he is spending his time sitting up in his parents house in Mendocino, on a dusty, rose-colored armchair with his eyes closed and a ledger-like journal on his lap. And a stack of similar, older ones on the table beside him. His father's, he tells me. He was saying something about his father in my dream, but there, the man was named Otto, not Adolus. Otto, like Plath.

Otto Plath was a beekeeper. Adolus Quinn kept insects on little pins in glass covered boxes.

I feel like I am sitting under a tree in the shade inside. this isn't bad, on this hot, humid day. I am actually sitting in a robe in an air conditioned apartment. I should find out if I have a job to-day.

I think I'll take Stephen out to talk and drink tea or something. We're listening to Phantom, go figure. I think Q would make an excellent Erik, meself.

I shouldn't be so in love with someone on the inside of my own head. It seems... vicariously(?) narcissistic.

If there's something ultimately wrong with narcissism, that is, of course.

<<agé chose>>

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