As I lie in early January darkness, the pieces of my dream clamber from the sleep abyss, climb up using ropes, hands, legs and strengthened pelvic floor muscles, pulling themselves into my morning and an attempted awakening. The dream pieces struggle alone, chaotically, smells mingle with sound, until I put them together, join the pieces ensemble; trying to remember who went where and why, which dark-haired woman put on plays and lived in China and held my hand softly as I explained ? Why does the sun set so beautifully behind the University Georgian buildings, casting a cherished golden haze? And, who is the twinkle-eyed boy that I am chasing, chasing, chasing in the corridors? I grab some of the pieces and lay them in a line, try to create an order, a narrative, a something from the pieces. Then, I get up, get dressed and drink Chun Mee green tea as my family sleeps. The morning has begun.
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