Dreaming of Poets

There must be something in the night air ... see Steve Mueske's blog entry (and Didi Menendez's comments) for a weird-whichever-way-you-slice-it dream synchronicity.

And now I'm doing it ... my old teacher, Jim Mitsui, appeared the other night in conversation with three other Asian-American poets. Blue poppies (Meconopsis) were blooming. He said, "As we mature as poets, we should try to achieve, not better answers, but better questions." Honestly. So I'm thinking that over.

In a more surreal vein, last night I visited Paul Guest in a basement studio apartment with midnight blue formica countertops. The walls were adorned with art in the form of blackboards with lines of cursive writing (some crossed out), and a collage comprised of photos of color-film packaging with a functional irising light aperture in the center. Someone was telling an anecdote about a man driving a big old burgundy Cadillac convertible, who came to grief (along with his small sienna-and-white dog) when he had to stop suddenly. I don't know what to do with all that, but it was interesting.

Telling my dreams seems narcissistic, but I guess that's sort of the point of blogging.