This morning was a dream of a house. It was open and full of glass, like a resort home. There was a party. M and a redheaded boy we know and others sat around the pool and read my stories while I walked around drinking from a glass. Peanut killed a mouse in two swats of a paw. I was told he was a mouser. The word "brutality" floated in the air. It was a good dream.

Next week I am going with my twin sister to a bar with margarita slushee machines covering the walls. We'll see Cary Grant's beach house, Venice beach, the zoo, and I'll learn to drive again. I'll wear polka dots.