No. 10

I dreamed you.
And I woke warm and smiling, with vague recollections of joy.
I know that dreams are just the mind's way of dealing with all the shit we've got spinning up there, and that you might not have been you. You might have been me, reflected there, in your eyes, your voice, your touch. Or, you might have be someone else entirely.
But it felt like you.
Even after, while I drank coffee and read, in the morning silence of this place, it lingered.
The dream.
You.

I used to be a writer

Started reading Nabokov's "Mary." It's a cheap old paperback from the 1970's that maybe I bought for $.50 at some used bookstore, though I don't remember that. It also seems like I started the book once upon a time, but never finished it. Only none of it seems familiar so far, so maybe I made that up too.

I wish I had the scholastic vocabulary to explain what it is I like about Nabokov's writing. But I don't. I just know that somehow it inspires me. Which maybe is enough.

I used to be a writer, you know? OK, technically, I still am. Professionally, at any rate, it is what I do. But mostly I forget. I go through the motions, because that's what pays the bills. And sometimes what comes out ain't too bad, maybe even good.

Anyway, reading Nabokov reminds me that I love writing. I love reading. It reminds me of the me in college who spent hours in the library or sitting under a tree somewhere devouring book after book--the me who used to write something everyday.