Being creeped out, I prefer to leave the man who might be a murderer, in the open concept but dark house in the trees, to the conservative, neat and tidy woman who would sleep with him.

I now have to deal with the weirdness of having a third breast on my shoulder, a prominent location on my body, vulnerable. Something our father has put here has grown to this. It reminds me of Celtic armour, and Janet Jackson. It seems to be getting attention for making a statement – but not my statement. I am wearied by the hassle of dealing with it and sorting out the mystery of it.

A travelling friend, a Scott, may not have time to join me for a swim in the lake before getting back on board. Maybe it’s too far or he doesn’t want to be wet while travelling.

A wooded area, the side of a small mountain.
A technical man at the top of a pole where three things hold it up – maybe to receive or send messages, or to be able to intercept something incoming – an attack?
He’s part of our team, he, another man and I.
Up a small hill – open rooms like a bunker – cement pads – layers resting on something.
Decomposing or turning into something else – partly made of mushroom/fungus.
Combining organic growth with planned structures.
An old idea left to develop on its own without certainty that it would turn out.
Developing on its own from neglect or time passing.
Old radios lit up – repurposed – one is a large upright console – almost moving with the energy coming through it – receiving something, part of a relay, with light moving out of it diagonally.
This is a room of concrete set aside for such things, all this action, defence and military and communications, set away from society, in secret, now maybe of use.

[From Apr. 26, 2012]