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Gwen, alive
Nov. 27th, 2017 03:37 pmDream.
In a house that never was, in a situation we were never in, I got a hug from Gwen herself. And I marveled to myself, in a calm, happy bath of dazed relief, at how my worries could have so deluded me, while she sat on the toilet and told me the news of the death of Khomeini (which would have happened when she was 11). Good hug. It was her, her arms, the feel of her. Real. And as I straightened up I thought about it too much and I snapped my sleep like a stick.
Still good to see her. It's a spot of sunshine (not just metaphorically; there was golden sun pouring in the bathroom window, and before when I was outside, when - she told me - she'd hid behind the garage door and listened to me talking to the Mexican workers who were helping me move some flower pots about my plans).
In a house that never was, in a situation we were never in, I got a hug from Gwen herself. And I marveled to myself, in a calm, happy bath of dazed relief, at how my worries could have so deluded me, while she sat on the toilet and told me the news of the death of Khomeini (which would have happened when she was 11). Good hug. It was her, her arms, the feel of her. Real. And as I straightened up I thought about it too much and I snapped my sleep like a stick.
Still good to see her. It's a spot of sunshine (not just metaphorically; there was golden sun pouring in the bathroom window, and before when I was outside, when - she told me - she'd hid behind the garage door and listened to me talking to the Mexican workers who were helping me move some flower pots about my plans).
I have a capacious funhouse. There is room for you, dear.
