My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Dream Interpretation
I dreamt I was making violins and each was perfect until the next one was begun. It was interesting that I seemed most absorbed in the neck, where in guitars the frets are located, confirming my having fretted to excess. (So much for dreams and their interpretation).
Labels:
dreams,
interpretations,
music,
worry
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