i'm not going to relate my dreams, not because they're secret, because i can't remember. i'm dreaming awake much of the time anyway, or reading dreams the writers of the world are dreaming. i finished reading the river and the following book i'm reading is mother river. rivers are mystery and source, endless and circular. i heard or read about somebody searching for a river nearby they couldn't see but knew was there, they could hear it and feel it flowing almost like the blood in their veins. then i recall searching for the nanaimo river with trish driving down a fire road that ended in a circle with a frosted mattress in the center that made us laugh puffy night clouds. the mattress frost glowed and there were shapes like islands or continents. the mattress was a map. we didn't find the river but it was there and it went by us quite near the mattress which may be there still after all these years. trish may have gone back after i left and never returned except now and then when i'm remembering.