Since March I've been collecting my dreams in handwritten language.

I've missed some days, the whole month of October for instance, but often had four or five dreams a night.
Since I began writing them down (mid-sleep), I've been more aware of them, remembering many more and many more details.

Here is what I wrote (in half-cursive blue pen) of my dream on the early morning of July 17th:

All the lights went out in Manhattan. I rode a tourist bus with Jim the filmmaker. I was naked and he let me borrow his shirt which was so wrinkled I could barely get it on. We ran into Matthew Zapruder's memory at a convenience store where he found a memoirist killed long ago. Cristof worked at a jazz club. I tried to convince him to let the comedian borrow his smoking jacket, but he was only wearing a vest. Later I shot photos of Yet at a festival. I said I dressed Yet in light. There were people still taking the bridge in darkness and rain. We could see them in a night storm that spotlit the end of the city.

I do not remember this dream in the slightest. No memory of a memory even. No sensation of the bus ride with Jim.
Can't remember where I was sleeping when I wrote this before the sun rose.

I highly suggest trying this for a month.
It's like when I was young and the tv stations would all turn to static late late late at night.
And I would wake up in the living room and attempt to not see shapes form in the corner of the frame.


Grocery stores, outdoor gatherings, water parks, car rides and poets seem to be the things about which I dream the most.
How could I have missed learning that about myself?