Monday, June 2

Monday morning, raring to go. Raring. I say it a few times to myself until it fractures into semantic satiation. Raring is defined as: very enthusiastic and eager to do something. Am I raring? To work? To write? To run?

In my dream I trekked through some hilly country — crystalline landscapes of thin ice beneath which shallow tributaries flowed. It was springtime and things were starting to turn muddy. Matt Jones was there with a horse and they were pacing back and forth to dig a channel in the rich black earth which quickly filled with natural spring water. They were building a moat so Matt could enjoy swimming laps like Roger Deakin. Later, in this same frosty spring country, I was attending a photography conference. I wandered naked into an old windowless farm shed and tried to take a self portrait, but the room was too dark. Next I tried to navigate a trail completely covered with a thick slab of ice. I was clothed again. Slowly and clumsily, I caught up with another photographer I'd seen skating along it earlier and began to flirt with her. She was still wearing her skates, but I slipped all over the place. 

I'm woken by Islay, whining for her breakfast in the other room. I'm only slightly disappointed to be interrupted, because soon I will be raring.