I hate when I know where my dreams come from. I wish they were always a mystery. Sometimes they are perfectly logical, and stem from something so obvious, that I begin the day with boredom.
The act of dreaming reality makes me worry that I’m not very smart. Where’s my imagination? Don’t I want my subconscious to “riddle me this”? Instead I get foot races and video games.
Yesterday, while sitting outside of Spyhouse, a bird flew into the glass window behind me, fell to the ground and then flapped around my ankles for a moment before flying away. Sometimes reality is more mysterious than dreams, I guess.
I took some photos of things on the way to work this morning. It was still pretty dark outside, and cool enough for a sweater. Fall is coming, and I’m not ready for Minnesota winter.
One thing I didn’t photograph today, which I always mean to, is a tag in the men’s bathroom at Spyhouse. Someone named “Hot Tub Tony” etched his name into the mirror, vertically. It’s like that Duchamp piece that they have at the Walker, where he wrote his name backward on a mirror, so that it looks like the whole world is his art, complete with signature. Did Hot Tub Tony know about this piece, and decide that Duchamp’s death left an opening in the avant guard community, and wasn’t so much imitating Duchamp’s work as he was just letting us know that there is, in fact, a new sheriff in town? Maybe the dude just loves hot tubs and wanted everyone (other dudes?) to know about it.