Dream: I’m rebuilding a house from the ground up. I’m standing in the middle of the house. The floorboards are stripped, there’s drywall and dust everywhere. The workmen have left for the day. I’m having a hard time finding contractors to work on the heating system, to paint the walls, to put in new flooring. My father is there, taking it all in. Suddenly we’re in one of those old loft buildings off Broadway. My father says he knows a guy who might be able to help. He calls down to his friends on the street below. They spell out the name of a contractor who can do the job: H-U-N-G. Then we’re back in the house. I’m looking around for a pen and paper to write down the name and I see my old friend, an orange cat named Pickle. Pickle sits in a sphinx pose on top of a big wooden arch, it looks like a barrel thats been turned on its side. He looks at me and we lock eyes. I get an electric feeling, like Pickle is looking deep into the soul of me. Then I wake up.
Today: the skunky-green scent a wreath of dried mugwort hung over your pillow, a craggy shard of danburite, music in the key of A, a cat that smells like an incense shop, and the rare annual appearance of night blooming cereus.
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Waxing Gibbous
The moon is 10 days old