woke up with a poem about Hannah Wilke in my mind. I wrote it down. Don't know if it works. Strange, only met her twice--but her art, of those last years as cancer leached her beauty--is very difficult to see. Very difficult. Maybe it's all the bird song. I remember she had birds in her loft.

We stole a tugboat, not exactly a tug but a boat that was old wooden and boxy - one cabin - as in most of the boat was that one cabin. Was with myself and 2 women friends of varied identities - they were always the same 2 women tho at one point one was a boy - but that was nothing to remark on and she was a woman again. I knew we’d make it if we hurried - we had a place to go, an apartment, a hideout, on Fountain north of Hollywood Blvd. - tho no locale was specified I was seeing it as Fountain.  We were on a big blue remote lake 15 minutes from Hollywood of the 70s.  I used a color stick on my hair, threw packaging in the wastebasket, shouted Should we take out the trash - eliminated evidence of our presence there - I was always aware we had a destination, rescue, a way out and that we should get off the tug. At one point I was in the water swimming to another shore though. It was nice to be swimming but I wasn’t doing the crawl so much as some sort of active floating. Treading? The water was good. Dark blue and the right kind of cold but I was aware it was not pristine. Instantly and "off camera" fishermen brought me back to the tug (kind as the fishermen who rescued Jeremy Renner in Bourne or it might have been Matt Damon). Thing is I had elaborate knowledge and was frustrated my friends didn’t and didn’t care. I imagined the tug owner's personality and likelihood she'd detect our presence - and wanted the hell to just get off it and move on. Prior to commandeering the tug we didn't commit a crime.  So much thinking ON the water (in retrospect). Worry frustration detailed knowledge unheeded by the carefree, awareness of the adventure, the voyage, the trip, the possible hideout funky and sunny. Redux on the prior - a winding road.

Last night I dreamed I was beatboxing to an entire stadium full of people. The crowd was on their feet. They were loving it. I woke up covered in slobber, but I felt proud. I still feel proud; I'm carrying that feeling throughout the day.

Fell asleep last night in front of CNN: in my dream Giordano Bruno and Lenny Bruce were discussing the state of the Universe.

Fragments of three dreams from this morning: 1. Karen is pregnant, and the doctor assures me (without evidence) that I'm the father. 2. I return to my old workplace to retrieve enormous piles of my personal possessions, mostly books, all of which are stored in Denis' office (his official one, which he doesn't actually use). 3. The entire movie, It's a Wonderful Life, with Alan Alda as George Bailey, ending with a monster coming out of the woods and down to a stream during the credits—then the image freezes and the voiceover announces the remake of The Creature from the Black Lagoon will come out next year.

Bested by the tropics, after a harrowing no AC cab ride during which the driver pulled over no less this five times to ask for directions to a relatively near destination, I fell into a strange sleep of perhaps the most menacing dream-hallucinations I have ever had, experiencing other people's and my own most profound viciousness: there was a party, many friends were there but seemed sinister, one (a married person) pressed himself lustfully against my back body, another man not a friend flicked a cigarette into food I was eating and then freaked when I confronted him on it, accusing me in an almost hebephrenic way of "privilege", I and others flew/swooped around the room, a kind of dark loft space, and I reached into the mouth of someone who offended me and bent his front tooth completely forward. And these are only the incidents I vaguely recall. Yangon in this season is truly dizzying and the weather seems to act as hallucinogen. Much respect and compassion for the people who must withstand it daily, and cook hot food at their roadside food carts or drive boiling taxis in diesel smog, triply dazed by betel nut and centuries of oppression.