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last night i dreamt about you

Last night I dreamt about him. He came to my house and sat me down and told me we couldn't see each other any more. I was understanding - and very sad. Then I found myself in my childhood home - and my bedroom was where the kitchen used to be. There were open doors on all sides and droves of people were passing through to get to the next room. I started by asking them kindly to take another way - then I began to barricade with a pile of discarded doors - but even that didn't seem to work.

I think it was my psyche complaining about the lack of privacy or slated alone time I've had for six days. Just me and a handful of boys in a cabin and then a tiny tent. Spencer called me Wendy and themselves the Lost Boys and said jokingly I should read them stories. And even when I snuck out to the swing set at midnight to wrap myself in wool and lie in the hammock and look at the stars - little Bradley followed me out for some quality therapy time. And from our conversation - the beligerent drunk of the night before began crying quietly and poured out his beer resolutely on the ground. I oscillated between feeling like maybe I�d helped to worrying about the blind leading the blind. But it was good to comfort someone else nonetheless.

We spent three days in Island Park, Idaho in a lovely little cabin near the river. I woke up the first day to find a moose in the river � and I sat alone on the split log porch with my tea and drew pictures of him. The alone time was scarce � filled in between with people following and extended hyper intellectualized conversations about politics and Lewis Carol and Tolstoy and top five favorite bands and lots of guitar. I found bloated dead mice in the bathroom and one tiny perfectly preserved bat beside my bed � and that I kept. I painted several pictures in my sketchbook � one of which I am in love with. I found myself lying on a pavement bridge cushioned by my newly fashioned wine drunk goose egg and watching the satellites pass by at their 2000 miles per hour. Falling stars burned the atmosphere and Greg silhouetted in the distance smoking his hand rolled cigarettes that make me dizzy that I can�t seem to keep lit.

I fell silent under the watchful eye of a mother Osprey fishing as her kin bobbed gawkily from their tree top nest � and spent an hour lying in a field beside the canoe contemplating the five million types of grass that jutted their heads nobly into the shocking blue sky � it was the calm I needed to watch rows of pleasant grass brush by and realize the numb ache was gone momentarily and the buzzing brain had quieted.

Greg showed Sam and me Quake Lake where a mountain had fallen and turned forest trees into skeletal headstones over a stone blue water grave. It began to rain and the water shined like stars and we fell silent � until Sam said to me �You wanted rain� and Greg a few moments later �Someone always says that when I�m here � they say it in my dreams too�

The next leg of our adventure was three days of backpacking in West Yellowstone. I calculated 200,000 paces over the collective 25 heavy backpack miles of unbelievably thick forest, golden fields and waterfalls. I sang loudly to avoid having to confront my fear of bears. Grouse, hawks and elk followed us curious. My feet bled and forty eight hours of no mirror and bathing in a river with lavender soap was a catharsis of self image unlike any other. We were pared down to our most basic soil scented selves and social posturing fell away as we begain to regard one another as partners in survival. I saw the geometric inclination of half dead lodgepole pine cell draped in the memories of silk flames and too much drug in my overzealous brain. And blueberries taste like heaven when they grow wild under pine trees. I hid in membranous nylon shelter and listened to the sky boil and tried to escape the weight of claustrophobia - ears turned to the war of earth and sky we�d stumbled into.

I found what I needed the night I decided against the psychedelic for a purer form of vision � perched in my bathing suit on the slipperiest closest of rocks to the falls. Dunanda is Shoshone for "straight down" and how my heart leaped into the water that sprayed over my wild hair and how I could not breathe and how I saw the face of God and how I forgot myself entirely � and how it was blessed.

We sat beside the falls and her skeletal face � white water hair into emerald green of hot pots surrounded by every kind of plant and purple thistle and black ominous crow.

The next morning was filled with tired eyes and thoughts of nine miles out of camp and how we would be eating hamburgers and drinking soda again for the first in three days. We battled mosquitos and precarious tight rope walks on trees draped over rivers � power walking our way back to civilization � we made the treck in less than three hours and arrived panting and limping at our cars. Driving home I felt like I�d climbed a mountain � and made the physical journey my soul had been taking ahead these past four months. I had a moment of spiritual enlightenment driving by golden violet farms and thinking of how I�d missed myself and how I'd missed him and wondering if I�d see him again.

And now I�m here pretending to work � feet bandaged � arms coated in mosquito bites � legs sunburnt - completely content for the moment �

1:30 p.m. - 2005-08-11
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