61: Dreaming of Roland Barthes

OK, OK, I went, what, a month and a half? 365 is back. I missed it. This time, though, isn't give-or-take a few; one a day, my favorite, not always representative.

I have a recurring dream, one with variations: a visit to the university bookstore. It never looks as the U's does, but I'm always either searching for it or in it, browsing, looking for the next treasure. (I have had regular bookstore dreams too.) Last night's dream had me running my fingers along tilted books, the crook of my arm filling with Barthes and Borges. I took a peek at the shelves in creative writing, curious to see if the intro class had books at all. No, but Intro to Nonfiction had a clear plastic box with two coils of golden rope, much like thin tasseled rope for decorating curtains, and a twenty and eight ones folded into it. I was curious as to what writing exercise would come of it and why it cost sixty dollars to purchase.

It's afternoon, the new washing machine and dryer are turning my clothes over and over quietly, that new plastic smell filling the bathroom. I am packing for a week in Wisconsin, four dogs and me. My revised thesis being edited down to completion. The distance learning British Literature class that I have an incomplete in ready for conquering. I'm getting my ducks in a row, to use a cliche. It's almost a retreat, this dog sitting adventure.