short morning journal

[trying to get back on track again.  it's difficult.  finish one project and it's hammock time] 

i've been having vivid dreams lately.  you are in them.  most time it's positive, but this time you were far, far, far away on a little ship stuck in a bottle.

i dreamt my mother was sick.  we lived next to the sea.  glass bottles kept rolling up on shore, hundreds of them, like fishes left when a tsunami sucks in it's gut.  there were local villagers, micronesians perhaps, and they were collecting the bottles to sell.  maybe they sold them to people like me so i could stick your little vessel in there, your three proud white sails like youth and admiration i'd like to preserve.  but you were gone from the dream by this point, only the faintest illusion of you through the shine of newly polished sea glass could be glimpsed.

meanwhile my mother got sicker.  or at least who i thought was my mother though the physical likeness was nothing at all like my mother but was, in fact, helena bonham carter.  it was more of a macabre masquerade than a real life tragedy.  i spent most of the dream running around crying hysterically.  i wasn't necessarily sad as it was helena bonham carter i was crying over, however, the pain for such forceful crying seemed very real.  my throat was sore and my eyes stung. 

you never appeared again.