Woke up shivering and fluey from a dream in which a group of us in an audience were watching a singing meditator prepare food with a small mat and a large steel knife, precise and balanced. The meditating singing chef was now lecturing at university in Berkeley and his CV proudly noted he had spent four years in prison. I went down to queue for a bowl of raw glistening vegatables, pared and sliced to transparent white and green and pink shavings, pristine and carved into sigils or runes. They spelled out any number of cryptic messages in the white bowl.
Had coffee and a hot bath. Shivering and low in spirits, The dream like a gift I can’t yet unwrap because I am not ready to appreciate it in my unwellness. (I felt this way a lot when I was drinking.)
Dark clouds are blowing up over the mountains from the north. I shall grate some raw ginger and squeeze fresh lemons, spoon honey into steaming cups of flu-cure elixir. I cannot afford antibiotics but at least I can stay in bed if necessary.
Thanks to everyone who wished me a happy birthday — I really loved seeing those messages come in!