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The map of my daydream










The map of my daydream is a thin sliver of grey, shimmer sheening in the sunlight.

It is a thick rind, ripe with possibility.

It dances like the sparkles in the center. It is a tall, still aspen. And the particular grey blue of the winter sky.

It is the silhouette of the orange chair, and the messy hair bun of my love, smoking his joint.

It is the quietness of the morning. It is the hot bitterness of my green tea.

It is the paper weight, and the plastic cover crinkle of my library book – Seven Thousand Ways to Listen.

It is the joy of knowing that everything is going to work out, according to plan. (Whatever that is.)

Tickety Boo of the Universe.

The more I let go, the more it works out, defying reason. The beauty of the daydream is – it is not practical, it is not reasoned. And it is all the better for that.

It is the sound of the piano – resonant, insistent, probing, melodic. 

It is the sound of my laughter.

The map of my daydream is meandering, not linear – like all good things of substance. It houses inspiration. The treasures are planted all the way along – not just at the end. It is about journey, not  final destination.

It is sweet, soft.

It is sexy, vibrant.

It flows out, and over, and under, and through; like a river that does not know there are any obstacles. Because the truth is, there are no obstacles outside of my head. My only true work in the world is to get out of my head, and into my heart. The heart, where my daydream resides, untouched, untroubled.

My daydream is persistent, always. It will not let me go. Like a hound on the hunt, with its nose quivering and sniffing out the scent, its jaw seeking out my fleshy, receptive skin.

There is no tomorrow, no yesterday in my daydream. It is always today. Bright, beautiful today – remember- with the shimmer, the paper weight, the laughter, the silhouette, the sensitive body, the animal of my being. 

And all of these are the building blocks – to the full realization of my daydream. It is self evident. It is self correcting. It is self setting. It comes softly, especially in winter time. And then it comes, more rambunctiously, in spring time. A season for everything under the sun.

It holds the perfect balance between mystic and body. This is being human.


There is a blue typewriter, there in my daydream. And a small wood cabin, tucked in the woods, with smoke billowing out of the chimney. 

A stack of  blank paper and a jar of good ink pens, beside my laptop. 

And a plate of oranges, and hot-out-of-the-oven cookies, for my tea........

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