Two Dreams.

I drove Chan to Rosendale yesterday to catch the 6:45 a.m. bus to the city so I can stay through the week alone and write. These Mondays (about once a month) when we do that, get up at 5 to leave the house at 6—it’s a 35-minute drive—are rough. I usually have to take a nap or two, and still more often than not I end up depleted and in bed before 9.

I had two dreams last night. In one, I was asked to read something from current writing at an event, and I panicked because I had nothing ready. The whole of the dream was nothing more than sitting there feeling terrified that I would be discovered to be a fraud. (In real life, I have several pieces finished enough to read, a few of them have even been published, and a request would be welcome.)

In the other dream, Bette Midler was furious with me because she’d asked me to plant two Rose of Sharon trees and, according to her, I’d planted them in the wrong places. Or something. To my mind I’d followed her instructions to a T, but she called a meeting and I was sitting at a table in a conference room with a small group that included my brother-in-law, there on behalf of one of my nieces (the trees, after I planted them, had suddenly blossomed, and my niece’s excitement to see the flowers was what drew Ms. Midler’s attention to my “mistake”) waiting for her to arrive and presumably chew me out.

I can’t say I’m not annoyed that lately my dreams are so bluntly about the things that I am anxious about in my waking life.