Our Room

Wake 5:06. Feel 6. Strong westwind, unceasing. Whitecaps on
the Bodden.

Exercises done. Walk taken along the winding road. The reeds
pressed flat to the east.

Leaf day until morning. Then Fruit. The calendar turns at the
same hour the Moon enters Leo — fire meeting fire. Uranus
leaves Taurus today after seven years, moves into Gemini. The
sign of the pair. The sign of the voice. The sign of the book.

For a Leo, on a Fruit day, with the Moon in his own sign: the
ground is no longer drawing inward. Something has ripened.

Why here.

Not chosen from a list. Gut Nisdorf arrived as the only ground
available when the ground was needed. Thirty days on the Baltic
coast — the Bodden neither sea nor lake, the horizon flat and
unambiguous, the westwind not asking permission. This place has
been doing something to the body that Brandenburg could not do.
The accumulated field of a coast holds what has happened in it.
The pebbles are between old layers. Last night I dreamed of
digging them out.

The dream didn't happen anywhere else. It happened here.

There was a dream.

A motorcycle gang. Collective masculine — coded loyalty,
movement as identity. Not adversarial. Present.

At the end, before waking, the leader and I were underneath
the earth together. Digging carefully. Removing pebbles from
between the layers. Making a room below.

He said: This is where we can write our book together.

Day 30. The third day of something that does not summarise
itself.

The room is being made.