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De File
Does Collecting Make You Feel Dirty?
Dreaming Myself Awake
I've been feeling strange the last four days, simultaneously exhausted and anxious. Some of that has to do with the fact that I haven't played basketball in over a week. But I suspect that I was also in the throes of a mild malady. Last night I finally got a good night's sleep, even though I kept waking up all sweaty and disoriented. As I learned during childhood encounters with moussaka, though, there's a delicious filling in every stuffed vegetable, no matter how abject it would be on its own. The more you wake up, the more likely you are to remember your dreams. And, boy, did I have good ones.

In one I had a long, thoughtful conversation with Jay-Z, in which the hip-hop legend's intellectual acumen proved even more impressive than I would have guessed from the words he puts on record. In another, I called my longtime friend Josh Gold, notorious for not doing his part to sustain a long-distance relationship, a "motherfucker," then wondered whether I'd delivered the insult with enough irony to keep him from getting mad at me. I never found out, alas, because I had to go help Kim with some complicated problem that involved color-coded hooks and tackle at some vast construction project. Interestingly, I knew that she was overseeing the work because her father's company was behind the project. In the dreamworld, at least, ironworkers morph into corporate big-wigs with ease. It has been a long time since I had so many memorable dreams. I'm taking that as a positive sign. Without somnolent wish-fulfillment the future would be a dull place indeed.

Mode: on the upswing
Muse: a memory of Cat Stevens, together with the washer and dryer

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