so i had this dream last night. there is a dead poet up a tree. a man hits the poet out of the tree with a large stick. a bystander says, 'well, if he wasn't dead already..."
according to one theory of dream analysis (by the way, note that the root word of analysis is anal) every aspect of a dream is the dreamer. so i am the dead poet, the man with a stick, the bystander, even the tree. cool!
when i walked out this morning a light mist enveloped the city. the air smelled of fresh bread, a warm, summery, yeasty scent, like cotton sheets hung on a line. i went to see the two baby bunnies in the park. i would love to pet one, but even if i could, i might get fleas. that is the problem with us humans. we have an unnatural fear of nature. but we ARE nature. therefore we have an unnatural fear of ourselves.
and that is why we have to knock the dead poet out of the tree.