that interpretive dance held no sting for me

It's so enthralling when the head of the French Department speaks to me as if I will be living in France next year.

Does the body rule the mind
or does the mind rule the body
I don't know*

I've been scattered across the planet lately. Or maybe just mentally stuck on hibernation. I can't stop thinking of hibernation and yet I've been to at least a party three nights in a row. Aren't I a hermit or something? And when I sleep I am filled with perchance dreams of wild assortments.

THE CHRONICLES OF THESE RêVES OF ONE M.BJORK:
(in succession of least interesting to most interesting)
(I'm only sharing two with you)
I've been thinking lately about how my hair hasn't been thinned in almost a year. Having my heavy head thinned is a great joie de vivre for me. And so I dreamt I was sitting in a barber shop chair (yes barber shop). I had the impression of seats of a jade or some type of coloring darker than sea foam, eternity mirrors, celebrity powder room lights. I sat there and as I looked up a boisterous but not loud, middle-aged Italian man turned around to face me with the joyous look on his face saying he'd delight in thinning my hair, a black bushy mustache, salt n peppa hair, a comb in one hand (black) a small pair of scissors in the other (silver), with a white labcoated body and gray permanent pressed suitpants. And that's all my dream held for me. Those five instants of uncertain, dazed, will-this-be-a-good-thing-? madness.

Secondly, I had a dream that fate was against me. Not people FATE. A something that was in everything. Most especially the slots that weren't quite a gambling game, and these little tiny black specks of bugs. The black specks spread a disease, a fatal disease. Some people just fell to it, but the disease, fate, and little black bugs were searching for me. Let me tell you about this disease, intently listening audience (do you listen to the click of my keys and keyboard?). The little specks (black) caused rhubarb to grow inside your legs, growing as right as garden with "your muscle, bone, and sinew**." Death was certain, who knows the cure for rhubarb legs? But before death comes you live for a while with the stringy, starchy feeling of rhubarb irritating you all the time.

*The Smiths (my CD came!) Still Ill
** The Decemberists Red Right Ankle