Feb 21: Burning Man is a young boy on a hill with a camera. He says “You don’t have to be a can opener to stay on the fresh side of cans.”
Feb 20: People climb into a series of suspended wooden barrels. If the inside of the barrel is light blue, the people will have sex.
Feb 19: In a restaurant, I realize I don’t have any money. I tell the manager I’m the new waitress, start waiting tables. The manager leaves.
Feb 18: Before a dream begins, I know if it will have death or unpleasantness in it. When that happens, I resist having that dream.
Feb 17: I have to take care of a puppy the size of a raindrop that keeps rolling off my hand onto ground. Difficult to find it and pick it up.
Feb 16: On a suburban street, in the shadow of trees, the shadows of cats and dogs with pulsating black penumbras slink along the sidewalk.
Feb 14: I discuss art with a baby in a high chair. He beams me a mental image of how a painting might look if Monet had painted like Mondrian