September 22, 2002:

Directed dream. Waco Street, San Diego. The park, looking west. Luminous, luminous, marvelous blues and greens, lit from within. Crisp detail like ultra-high-res digital video. You're aware that you're dreaming. "My goodness! This is a beautiful dream!" Ability to direct the point of view, panning like a camera; later to comment on details that are wrong. There are palm trees - there are no palm trees in that park. The distance to the ocean is foreshortened. It becomes tropical. Pan east, it's clear the houses are too large, one is perhaps a hotel, there are people climbing a fire escape. More like La Jolla than Clairemont. You're losing control of the dream.

Ka-whooom! Early a.m., Sunday morning. Frankenstein is playing U2. The bass shakes a lamp on the writing desk. Time to get up.