we’re all there, many of us, on the shore or on a bay, gathered around the bone structure, its
large wings offering cover or alternately exposure for the various encounters the situation
serves us, each marked with the significance of surprised felicity at finding each other here at
this time, when we otherwise at the very least could have gone to bed (wherever that is) but
instead we’ve found ourselves drawn to this place, modulating our conversation with the
convolutions of the architecture, a gap in the structure here opening onto the air and light over
the sand spit drift and hence gathering a crowd, against which our exchange of words can be
anonymous but not private, whereas this dark wing offers no such vantage and hence no
concretion of bodies other than ours, the shadowed enclosure serving a different kind of
encounter, a hushed intimacy in which I’m able to approach and ask where you got your shoes
and why are they so white, realizing only retrospectively that white shoes match the pallor of
this strange architecture that I initially described as bone, an assessment which if true would
require an animal of immense size and additionally some means of its maneuvering into the
present framework of hallways and vistas, which while clearly constructed with deliberation
and effort seem intended to serve no dramatic spectacle or didactic lesson but instead only
these vague encounters and yet here we all are, evidently attracted by some promise of this
remote place with nothing else around, no parking lot nor other means of arrival I can identify
and no memory of my own entrance on the scene, just my presence, the trajectory of which I
try to trace: a line that turns out to be other than a line, a mobius strip, some impossible shape I
can’t see except by way of a sideways glance stolen while my focus rests on some more stable
form, in this case the bone structure, the one element of the dream, apart from our encounter
and your shoes, that I remember with any degree of certainty, a frame through which I’m able
to channel an elaboration of those elements of the dream that remain out of focus, which isn’t
to say less real, less urgent, less present, less proximate to some truth of the dream, whose
geography indeed has no center or hidden core, only certain forms that trouble telling, that are
in need of further dreaming which I do now by writing my dream down, the grammar of the
dream continuing to offer its invention to me, its trick mirror suggesting a logic outside of itself,
an environment induced by its shimmer, a vague detail that impels the extension of the dream
into the day, my reporting of its form and plot then less a document of something that
happened than another shade of the drawing the dream makes. if I need to tell you the dream
it’s because I need to keep having it.