The night before last I dream about my adviser from college. We were together for a long time, the two of us -- six years or something. She died almost four years ago now, over spring break.

I dream about her every so often. This time we were at her house, having a party, watching some sort of weird movie that I think was impacted by my bedtime reading of Anansi Boys. Actually, I think the whole dream was influenced by bloody Anansi Boys, so it was very, very odd, indeed.

And here I thought I'd be helping myself get a good night's sleep by reading something light, humorous, and fanciful before bed instead of Carson McCullers.

***

I don't remember all that I dream last night, but I dream I was writing, and the words were perfect, like poetry. And I took such pleasure from it. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and what I wrote was wonderful. And then bloody Mr. Anthropology was there, and he agreed that the language was gorgeous.

And then I woke up.

I was just standing in the mirror, considering taking a shower, sipping my tea, and the memory of writing something so cool, so great, so fabulous came back, and Mr. Anthropology was there and he agreed, and now it's left because I know that whatever I sit down to right just won't be so hot.

So I'm writing this instead.