The other night, not last night but some night I dreamt that the moon was waning, just like in real life, but everyone kept trying to convince me it was full. No no I said, I knew we're almost at the end of Tammuz and Rosh Chodesh is coming soon, no mames. But then the moon split full-sense-soaked huge on the scene, fat and glowing harvest-orange and full to bursting, pushing back at the accordion-folds of darkness.

I need to go to the gym. I need to work on my paper before Shabbos services, and after, which sucks. It's the 10th of Tevet which I'm only just now learning about; I'm not fasting. I have so much to do, and I don't care about it, and I hate how it's interfering with my Shabbos practice. Solstice ritual tomorrow as Shabbos is ending and then more work afterwards.

On the plus side I fell in love with the city again yesterday, walking around the village over by Tompkins Square Park on a beautifully dilated monochromatic gray day, Angelica Kitchen wee-dragon for lunch and then the last day of Nietzsche class. My dreams Wednesday night were codeine bright, fell asleep wine-drunk and dreamt of having to kill someone and pass them to the ancestors, dreamt of Ren getting married again seaside, the broiling quality of sunlight and turquoise waters unbelievably clear.

Last night I dreamed of whipping winds, praying to see my spirit animal and instead of the expected red-tail hawk looking up to see feathery black buzzards swarming the sky. Later my mom and I were in a health-food store and she helped me pick out the right tube of cocoa butter, humectant and creamy.

Oh shit, I forgot to tell you guys that I had a dream the other night that I was about to get fucked by Keith Ansell Pearson. Who the hell is that, you ask? He's some philosopher who <3 <3 <3s Nietzsche, Bergson, and Deleuze; he wrote a book called Viroid Life which I've never read.

So, in short, entirely random (I only recognize his name through citations and my Bergson anthology) and nonsensical-- there was nothing in my dream to make me know it was Keith Ansell Pearson (g-d knows I have no idea what he even looks like), it was just understood.

The history of philosophy as a kind of ass-fuck, indeed.

Ahhh I forget what I was gonna write about, so I'll just assume it was about how much I miss school.

I'm actually dreaming about it.

I had a dream that it was wintertime at alternate-Vassar where the buildings were brick and covered in ivy and I wandered into this class on marriage in Thailand. I said, "wait, this isn't postmodern feminism!" but the prof (perhaps a combination of Wendy Graham and Gayle Rubin or something?) seemed amused + convinced I should stay. She helped me find my way to the building where this other class was, where we had to scale the wall to climb in through the window.

Lots of dreams about this mentoring/professorly thing, actually. Like the one where a man who was my friend clamped his hand down over my mouth when we were underwater in the ocean. It was totally comforting. He said, "okay, breathe" and counted to calm me down. I was simultaneously breathing/not breathing, and when we came up, I felt so calm and centered and triumphant. A big wave crashed over us and went up his nose. Ironic, eh? Ahh, dreams- where breathplay underwater with gay male mentors is possible.

At any rate, not only do I miss all of you fine fine Vassar friends, I miss having a small room that I keep clean. Stacks of books, and coffee, and the library, and papers to write, and poststructuralist linguistics to talk about w/Matt, and and and...Filthy academia. How I love it.





ps I love my home friends as well. But you already knew that.