I'm allergy- and dream-ridden this morning--my head full of clogged sinuses and a disjointed narrative about being a failed poet (maybe?) or not knowing some dream-bard that everyone else in the dream knew (maybe?) . . . the storyline has vanished but the miasma remains.

Anyway, it's all moot now [what a terrible word moot is]. I'm back in the physical world, drinking black coffee and medicating a headache and looking forward to forgetting everything I ever knew about poetry dream-politics.

Today: yoga and editing and sneezing and reading manuscripts and picking up a grocery order and riding my bike and mowing grass and sneezing and making lentil soup.

That stupid dream has made me feel dissatisfied with myself . . . which is fine: I ought to be dissatisfied with a lot of things regarding myself--but none of them should involve fictional who-knows-whom and I'm-not-famous-enough garbage. Sometimes I get very annoyed with my subconscious. I mean, why waste our precious hours on this stuff? Wouldn't it be more useful to teach me a real lesson?

Well, you can't tell a subconscious anything. It's ornery as a stump.