Pictures of Zelda Fitzgerald in her prime and of Mata Hari in her prime don't quite look fat by today's standards, but they do look way too rounded to be considered outstandingly beautiful today.

Once women could be internationally famous for beauty and be rounded all over. I can't stop myself from thinking Zelda Fitzgerald has a fat face, because I am living way inside the shrink-women-down propaganda machine, made largely of photographs of rails.

A black album cover with separate photgraphs on it of a turtle and a volcano, the album called, "Music of the Sphere."

The idea was that everything on Earth emits a basic note, below any usual noises it may make or cause. This album was field recordings of these sounds.

The volcano note was deep. The turtle note was dry and weird, and I can't remember it.

Trees weren't in the dream, but I can almost hear the tree sounds, not the rustling, but the identity notes.

Do less; have less; be more.

Shall we design our flag? Shall we design our not-flag?

I honor now some air waves above the ground. I like their patterns. I do declare that they do not have to massage ideas that I like.

Flawedness is the only option. I disagree, but there it is.

I don't know how to deal with flawedness in myself or others. Now, that's a flaw.

Music fans are more likely than musicians to love the kind of music they love and disdain other kinds.

Musicians are more likely to love music as a group and to be riveted by at least one kind of music their fans feel is wrong, so very wrong.

In this circumstance, I need to do the important work of doing nothing.

Which is not easy for me, which is important.

Optimism in a cup. Crabbiness in a can. Caffeine is widely available around here.

Waking up grumpy is partly waking up in caffeine withdrawal. Then have a cup and speed off.

We're sort of zooming Earth life away with too much activity. Glaciers melting, deserts growing are not exatly caffeine hangover events, but not exactly not.

A bias for action around here is sometimes so slanted it becomes a precipitous cliff.

Renata Adler was a New York Times movie critic who brought to the job the gift of not being particularly fond of movies as an art form. She almost didn't like them as a group.

This gave her access to general insights less available to lovers of the form.

She said you can't make an anti-war movie because film always says yes to what it shows.

We could have a party around June 15, 2015, the 800th anniversary of the Magna Carta. The barons wrested some rights from King John, limited his power over them, and there's a way of looking at that as the start of a long time of rights wresting by different groups, more groups.

They said it might rain today. So far I've felt fifteen or twenty drops across five blocks of walking. I don't know if that was a harbinger or that was it.

Too easy, and easy in the wrong way.

Heavy packaging to make you think you're getting more than you're getting.

I demand that you think, with your heart and ankles and everything.

We were getting ready for people, and I thought we wouldn't have enough. You started to cut the cabbage and I got that if the cabbage was cut correctly, which you were doing, there would be enough.

In the vibration reality of the dream, enough meant plenty and cabbage meant the greatest food ever.

So I woke up, and tried to get it there's enough.

About five hours later, in real reality, the trash can by the bus stop had on top of itself, as give-away, two whole, perfect, purple, beautful cabbages. They looked gorgeous in the morning optimistic sun. Partly like, yes, cabbages are wonderful, all we ever need, and partly like large exquisitely carved gems.

Enough, okay, and enough is plenty.

Women are adaptable when explaining to themselves that the demeaning situation they are in isn't demeaning and doesn't scrunch them up and stunt their growth.

If the woman and the people around her are religious, she can explain to herself that the holy book says this is great.

If she and the people around her are into making the world better by doing new and different things, she can explain to herself that the way she is scrunched up and tamped down is part of a wonderful experiment that is improving the world.

Thinking off the leash is needed--those thoughts way over there could help lots of people who weren't designed to think them first but who could totally live them out if they heard them.

Thinking in praise of the leash kills at least possibilities. Sometimes thinking in praise of the leash kills people who stay in a dangerous situation about which they have a noble theory.

When you can't win, it may be a fine thing to conserve your energy.

There is a way to set the whole thing up so there isn't vast underlying misery.

Glob, globe, brain lobe. We're more connected so we can learn to think.

You might be part of a band called Angels with Loud Trumpets.

When angels are envisioned as women, they aren't usually pictured in a way that looks loud. Harps are popular.

But there in Matthew, in the twenties, are angels and loud in the same sentence, in the Revised Standard Version.

You are called. You are called to call. Sometimes loudly.

Suddenly, I'm in the garden, and the garden starts to teach me how to be in the garden.