In my dream my laptop is tolen twice and then it takes so long to check the star into rehab that I miss my flight. My stuff is in his car but he won’t let me call the airport from his mother’s office at the newspaper.

In my dream it’s after crawling over the bin of crushed shantung neckties that I feel free to examine the hot tub at Susan Sontag ‘s house so that later when the wrestling happens I think “of course this is what he wants”.

Circa 2006 photo by Dominic Vyne

Evidently I’ve been messing with WordPress for fifteen years, or so I was just informed. I feel like my site is just a hodgepodge these days, but perhaps it was ever thus. I’ve gone through Live journal, Friendster, FaceBook, Insta, TikTok, Scruff, Growlr, Twitter, Snapchat… those are the ones I can remember. What I have stuck to at this point are this site and Tumblr.

It struck me that the revolution has been in publishing and not in writing. In fact when I look to write I’m always looking for “distraction-free ” solutions: computer versions of the blank 8.5 by 11 sheet that is so in voting and intimidating in its stubborn physicality. I want it simple when I write, but social media is tangled and convoluted, a conversation and a thousand million teapots to house our tempests.

I don’t crave publishing at this point. I crave writing: the teasing out of ideas. I don’t feel like this site contains the last fifteen years of my life in any meaningful way. Its meanings and uses are too locked away for even myself. I can only press on.

In my dream the bags are stowed in a line. The president says “the oval office” as she passes. I draw canted buildings on the campus. The screening measures are stringent. The big event is a slide show. We crouch and hide.