I head for the shower. You appreciate bathing so much more when you only do it once a week.
The small shower is locked, so I enter the large one. I haven't been in here yet this year. It is warm and surprisingly dry. The plastic lawn chair has disappeared. I hang my towel, place my soap and shampoo on the cement floor of the shower cubicle, and undress.
It is only when I step under the hot water that I realize I am living my dreams. I dream happenings; only in the middle of the 'real' event do I recognize that it was first a dream. In the steaming chamber, I recall that I was trying something new when I went down the hall in the residence of my subconscious and found the cleanest and most agreeable shower where, in true dream fashion, I may or may not have bathed, but certainly emerged clean.
My dreams are not so much visions as places I go. Unconscious, every setting I have ever known blends together, and home becomes Sweden becomes Santa Cruz becomes Chile becomes Denmark becomes Costa Rica. They are places I've been but have not yet been able to consciously process. Mutations crop up. It is as if there is time for mutations to arise, but when I wake and recall my dreams, I can never remember the sequencing. Last night I was in a park. No, that was this morning. No, that was last week; this morning I was in a warehouse with giant skylights, or else the Quarry. When I wake, it is as if returning from a long trip, and getting out of bed is shaking off a kind of cerebral jetlag.
I look forward to going places in my dreams; it is a kind of relaxed thinking. But I look forward more to going places awake and conscious. Thoughts of new adventures, discoveries, smells, sights and sounds give me pleasure. My greatest pleasures come from the smallest things. A white porcelain cup on a turquoise melamine saucer.
Not coffee. Hemp milk with molasses.
Taking off all my clothes at the beach and sunning even though I forgot my swimsuit. Meeting the best friend of one of my best friends and getting along splendidly. Losing track of time recounting aforementioned dreams.
Joan Didion's Salvador. Avocados. Learning the names of the streets of the city that I have known as nameless for so long. Splendid sun in February.