superstition

I am not religious; but I am, perhaps, a bit superstitious, a trait that I don’t blame myself for. It is a strange thing to be alive, and conscious; it’s hard to get a real sense of scale pinned down about the world we live in and our particular place in it, which is why perhaps it’s easy to see signs and portents everywhere — we are a self-centered lot, in general. At any rate, when I urgently dream about part of a friend’s house burning down (or perhaps a vehicle?) I worry. Hope you lot are all ok.

Or perhaps I’m just channeling Burning Man vibes; a slow haze drifting northward to the miasmic soup of hipness that is northern California and beyond, though both the Internet and more subtle channels of vacation schedules and longing, generator rentals and packed-up vans. It seems like every other person is on the playa right now. I hope my friends there, too, are well. Though I would like to go someday, I’ve never felt a particularly pressing need to. I’ve camped in the desert before; and I have found my own miracles in the backlot of the American wilderness. I like fire and immersion as well as the next pyrokinetic, though, and will perhaps go someday for that.

I tend to have intense dreams when I sleep by myself, as has been the defacto standard for a couple of years now. I’ll get on a roll, and imagine utopias and houses, people and travels. There is a certain rhythm to such dreaming that is both satisfying and a bit disturbing; if I could write stories as well as I dreamed them I’d have novels published by now. Some of my earliest memories are not of real things, but of dreams that imprinted strongly or recurred.

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