Gavin is driving me home to Ranzau Road (my first home, to age 12) in an old car. He passes it but instead of turning around to drive back, he reverses for about 1km. I say, "This is like a dream". I pick up the big heavy key and enter to find it really squalid inside - rubbish piled up. Dad is around somewhere. I'm tense.
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dream journal
(__________)
The phrase "cuttlebone query" leapt out at me from a stream of email spam babble and rattled around my head for a few years. I remember the curved white cuttlebones washed up on the beaches of my childhood summers. They suit me as metaphor for dream remnants - tiny compared to the ocean they come from; gouged and marked; hard and soft; light; gleaming wet then rasping dry.
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