Reading a picture book - along the lines of Graeme Base's The Eleventh Hour (elaborate kids' book containing clues with which to solve its mystery) - the clues narrow down to the multi-murderer being me. I feel sick with the realisation that yes, I did kill some people. My mother's brothers, yes. My mother? I buy the book in the hope that no-one else will realise my guilt.
My (real-life) counsellor, Sue, dresses up as my mother. I watch her acting the part as people observe me. Self-conscious. Everyone is watching me to see how upset I am. I'm not sure if I'm failing to be too held-together or failing to be upset enough. A classroom of little kids watches. Sue says to one little girl, "You must miss her. You liked her a lot." Shouldn't she be saying this to me? But I feel sorry for the girl.
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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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