Morning. Rained a lot last night. I dreamt the house was lost to a sinkhole.

I went to some foreign country with a group of friends. Maybe it was Hungary or Czech Republic, not sure. Maybe Russia? We had to take a train from some place to some other place. Along the way I was concerned about the quality or the status of my passport. I also grew concerned that I seemed to be the only person trying to keep track of what time it was, what time we had to be anywhere, or get back. At some point Cara Benson was there, and I think we were visiting Athena Stylos in a house she either owned or was borrowing. I think she owned it because at some point I was climbing up this very, very long, spiraling, meandering hand-made staircase, that I’m pretty sure she put together. It felt extremely rickety but everyone assured me it was strong nonetheless. The staircase was something I felt a need to replicate somehow, either drawing, or filming. It was like a Jan Svankmajer creation. Cobbled together, very comical, but also strangely beautiful (in its uniqueness and that it was made at all). It didn’t ascend at a consistent pitch, but dipped up and down in places. The pitch was mostly shallow, too, so that crawling/climbing along on it was not so much going up or down anywhere as all around a room. But also up. Then we were getting ready to go to bed (I think) and I think maybe I felt funny about not knowing where to sleep. Maybe Mackenzie Carrignan was there too? I think so. I think it was all poets from Dusie, a couple of dude poets as well. The whole of it was darkly lit, and everything felt old and worn. The next day we were getting back on our way, maybe to go home. We stopped in a café for a quick breakfast. Several people had already sat down around a wooden bar and were drinking some kind of café au lait or lattes or cappuccino. These were in small-ish clear glass cups and mugs, very brown…the foamed milk on top was also brown It looked all sweet and sticky. Foamy brown sugar. I sat down next to someone, worried (again) I was taking someone’s spot but sort of not caring because I felt an urgency to move on and to get us going so we wouldn’t be late for our train. Someone came out of the bathroom to re-join us, and then I woke up.

dream about tornadoes (recurrent) again last night.

I was walking on a dimly lit, icy city street with my 9 year old daughter. On a slight incline in the sidewalk, I started to slide and couldn't move forward. She grabbed my hand so I wouldn't fall, then helped me walk the rest of the way. I noticed her mittens were deep blue speckled with reds and oranges. The dream gave me a feeling of intense contentment that made me think everything in my life is going to be okay.

After watching Time Bandits last night I dreamt 80 year old Katherine Helmond had an affair with my boyfriend, and I wasn't mad because she was so beautiful and weird.

I rode a gunmetal-blue grown-up sized tricycle from Boulder to Denver and back again. Somehow, the road was Flatbush Avenue the whole way. I made great time, better than all the traffic around me. When I got back to Boulder, A's mother was at my house and I was afraid to see her. I spied on her from the porch outside. She was welcoming an old friend of mine, but kept mistakenly/deliberately calling her Agatha. After a while I went inside and told everyone how great it felt to ride the tricycle. I tried to explain how much faster it was than a regular bike, but nobody believed it. I kept thinking: if only they knew...

I wanted to get into an exclusive party but the restaurant maître d' insisted I needed an invitation. I wasn't dressed for the thing, but managed to convince him I belonged there. All I wanted was to get inside to see if I knew anyone. I looked around and was reminded of many a bad wedding reception, with tens of strangers huddled together at small tables, smiling politely, desperately wanting to leave. I recognized no one, but noticed everyone had dark hair. I left and went outside where it was now dark and snowing. I hurried in the cold (for which I was not properly dressed) to the parking lot to get my car, but it was locked behind two separate fences. I jumped both fences, found my car, and put my key in the lock. This simultaneously started the ignition, which alerted the two parking lot guards who immediately came running over and "arrested" me for leaving a baby in the car. I didn't remember doing this, didn't recognize the baby at all, but still felt horribly guilty for doing such a terrible and thoughtless thing. The baby seemed all right. The guards calmly spoke to each other about me as if I weren't there. They took notes on all my crimes, and confiscated all my belongings including a pillow I've had since childhood, and a copy of Lee Ann Brown's Polyverse. Something about their calm demeanor made me feel I was in the worst trouble I've ever been in my whole life.

On a flight to Turkey, Klaus Kinski berates me for taking Werner Herzog’s side against him after we watch “My Best Fiend: Klaus Kinski” together on his iPhone. His bloodshot, cerulean eyes—always already bulging—are strained near the point of socket explosion as he screams and rants at me: you are hardly the exquisite writer I buried 10 years ago! His contorted, enraged face is so close to mine, I end up breathing in the sweat off his forehead.

I notice a hat pin holding a deeply luscious, humid, creamy gardenia to his lapel. I think of using the pin to puncture the whites of his eyes if he tries to strangle me—which is what he threatens to do. He moves to grab my throat but his hands fall instead on the notebook lying open on my lap, which he searches frantically for evidence of my true hatred for him. I try to stay calm and explain that Herzog was only trying to make everyone believe Kinski was insane in order to promote a greater interest in his films. I point out, too, that I'm not the person he buried. That I'm still very much alive, and that in fact, it is Kinski who is dead.

Suddenly in control of himself, he dismissively replies: only the grim poet needs to point this out.

Guam, where there are no longer any birds. I walk into a mess of spider webs. Spiders and spiders, and no birds to eat them.

I paw through the webs, wanting to be brave about it, not squeamish and afraid. I am uncomfortable but push forward anyway. These webs are lovely, and unlike any real-life webs I’ve seen. These are curlicued swirls of fine cotton. Mist-like and seemingly substanceless. They stick to me anyway, and everywhere. To my face, hands, and clothes.

I sweep my way along. Someone else is there, and they don’t warn against what I’m doing. This adds to my confidence, so I continue.

Next thing, hundreds of extremely tiny amber spiders are everywhere on me and biting. I rub at them and try to kill and smack them away. They mostly get my hands, but I feel one now and then up around my neck or in some hard to see place. I look carefully. There are equally tiny and similarly colored scorpions on me as well. It is horrible but I realize I can’t freak out. I have to keep it together to get them off me.

After a while I am clear of them all. My hands are puffy, warm and hurting. I look at them and see hundreds of tiny bumps. The spiders have laid their eggs under my skin. I don’t know what to do, and realize I need a doctor to help. I fight an urge to take a knife to my skin and cut the eggs away. I want to pop them like little caviars, but worry this may not be the best thing to do. I think of drowning them by immersing my hands in something caustic like vinegar. This is all I remember.