September 21, 2002

• Are we this face?

  Are we this face?

  All these faces and more we are
  With the truth right in front of us
  When our backs are turned.

  Aren’t you glad you came?

  Aren’t you?

  –Ken Nordine

  I just woke from a nap.

  I dreamed that I had three swords belonging to my friend Marco. I was keeping them for some reason; he had entrusted me with them.

  I was in Houston, but not so much Houston as The Place I Grew Up. I approached the back door. The place was lit by moonlight. I thought, ‘Shit, I hope they left a key,’ as I felt around my belt loop for a keychain. It was there.

  I opened the door and went in. The house had no front. Something had destroyed it, as in a flood. The issue of the key was moot.

  A lot of work had been done. The moon shone down on the cement floor, still a thin layer of mud and grime. Small puddles of muddy water in the corners. Here and there a loose sheet of plastic waving silently in the almost nonexistent breeze.

  Walk around a corner in the darkness. A table and some chairs, the rack with the swords I’m taking care of. Someone’s there, I think it’s my mom. She asks me about the swords.

  I pick out my favorite and show her. I remove it from the scabbard. It’s a nice katana. She thinks they’re all beautiful. The sword has stains on it. They look like spaghetti sauce. I explain that I need to clean it. She wants me to cut paper with it, to show how sharp it is.

  • 11:50 pm
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