Batches

I had a dream. At work, and something flew by in the sterile core, which became a bird. Sparrow or small dove sized, with a very long and fluffy tail. I knew I had to get it out, and we talked about getting a box perhaps. Then my manager and an anesthesiologist walked through, in deep conversation, manager had a parrot on her arm. Anesthesiologist put her finger out, and the bird stepped on to perch. I thought, Oh, good, she's taking care of it, but they walk on and the bird is still there. So, I put out my finger, and the bird steps onto it. I hold it gently, and with help, get it to an outside door and let it go. It flies off. But then a large bird foot with shackles drops. The bird is far off, but seems to be fine, so I don't know where the foot comes from.

I woke a bit worried.

Only days later did I remember my grandmother's superstition that a bird in the house meant a death. Given that I only knew about this is because birds regularly came in my converted from a bathroom childhood bedroom, and no one died in that house, I never took it seriously.

The U bookstore had a great deal on tech supplies, and Dylan urged me to get a laptop so I could write again. Compared it to his guitars, we need our creative outlets. And he reads here. Spending money on myself makes me very anxious, but I accepted with gratitude. Had a mandatory meeting at work this morning at 0700, bookstore opens at 0730, so he came up with me and read in the waiting areas. He set it up when we got home, and the pent up words are flowing out.

Feeling rusty, awkward, but eager to stretch out. Wanting to write thousands of words in a batch of story.



The sun was streaming in. I put Moby up on the arm of the chair, and he paused, decided this was a Good Thing, and took a bath. Eleanor sat in the window close by.