(no subject)

Woke after four hours - fuck - to some extent because my body's not yet adjusted to these hours, to some because I had some white wine which dehydrates me cruelly, partly because of other discomforts and most of all because of one of those dreams that are bad during but so fascinating to trace the meanings of after that you lie awake doing that. The me who authors dreams is pretty attractive to the me who has them because I'm not that good at talking to myself - I'm too aware such dialogues are scripted, are in every sense designs. But I'm less interested in lost, deep aspects of self and more in what I'm actually like to others, and strangely I can sometimes read bits of that from the dreams, which feel like they're constructed by that other I in a sort of Rawlsian enforced ignorance of who the dreamer would be, or maybe more accurately that there would actually be a dreamer. Not all that Rawlsian, since they refer only to my memories and concerns, since only to me could they ever be very meaningful, but starting from a standpoint of similarly principled disinterest.

And all the thoughts about dreams - these thoughts but then many others - got me thinking about the book I mentally replot every month or so, which as it usually does got me thinking about the second, very different, much sillier, much funner imaginary book I also rework. Neither of which is the crucial-feeling nonbook from so long ago that I avoid even thinking about. Though I feel presences from it diffusing into the less silly latterday one sometimes.

If only I could hire the dreammaker to actually write one of these.

Maybe I can sleep again after some food and painkillers.