In my dream I’m in LA and have made it across Fairfax and almost all the way up to the counter of the 60’s donut shop when I notice that most of the facade is just photos on plywood and that it’s all shut down.

In my dream the white fur passes the end of the hallway.

In my dream I toss the dog’s toy under the bush, and then realize that a skunk-like bird and cluster of cats have collected there. I prepare to fish it out and see one of the cats emphatically spraying to mark territory.

In my dream we are all on the floor.

In my dream I’m eager to get started working in the shared studio space a younger man has set up in the sprawling warehouse. People are making things, there are possibilities.

Nayland T Blake 1933 – 2025

Here is my father, Nayland T. Blake celebrating his 90th birthday, three years ago. Three weeks ago, I flew to South Carolina to join with my sister and aunt in gathering his things and settling his affairs in the wake of his death on May 23rd. I can’t sum up my relationship with him, in part because we shared the family style of feeling deeply but communicating poorly between each other. I do know that I would not be an artist if not for him, and the thing that I am proudest of learning from him is the habit of greeting each person in my day as an equal. He made friends easily. I barely ever saw him angry. But we papered over our distances with affable cliches, and that is as much my failing as his. At least on this birthday visit, the last time I spent with him, we were able to just sit together, not in performance but in connection. In our last phone conversation, he told me that he was proud of me, and I said the same to him. I am.

Bye Dad

In my dream C tells me to write more poetry, that I’m good at it. We’re leaving and he’s leaned back into the corner of the bed. I marvel at how he has made a career as a poet at last.

In my dream lists and raisins.

In my dream L comes by the new office and while we talk I realize that because it is long and narrow, the front entrance isn’t the best one. On the other hand, the sides have huge windows onto the courtyard and lobby with views of light and grass.

In my dream we push through the shoulder high snow, looking for a place to sleep in the village.

In my dream I am unpacking some boxes from storage, with files of clippings and books. And then I get to compliment a woman on her perfectly made hat, a green felt number that combines a cloche and a fedora.

In my dream Dirk Bogart has posed for the ultimate English pin-up : pallid, scrawny and embarrassed. Later I’m pissing blood.

In my dream I tell the German monk in my video game “I’m not interested in dealing with dragons now”. Seconds later, a spherical clown pops between the claws of the black dragon wrapped around the Manhattan bridge and bounces down two silk platforms.