Still brutally hot here in Providence. Last night's low was 81˚F., and the temperature in the House never dropped below 84˚. Now, it's 91˚F Outside, with a 101˚F heat index, and it's 86˚F in the "cool" part of the House. Yesterday, the mercury climbed to 98˚F (!) in Providence, with a heat index of 104˚.
No storms came yesterday, but we're promised they will this evening, and that the fever will break overnight. We shall see.
The library closed early yesterday, and we could think of no other place I could go and work. So, we decided to stick it out in the House. Which was idiotic. I couldn't work. I spent most of the day lying on the floor in the middle parlour near Dr. Muñoz, drifting in and out of sleep. I was still drenched with sweat when I went to bed at 1:15 a.m. Very, very early for me.
There is a silver lining. I'm back on the clonazepam, and in just twenty-four hours I'm much, much better. I think. I always have to knock on wood. I slept deeply last night for the first time in weeks, at least 6.5 hours. And the bright dreams came back to me. The dreams that are an entire lifetime (or significant portion of one) lived out in a few waking hours or minutes. I awoke genuinely dreamsick, and I cannot recall with certainty the last time that happened. Waking in a near panic because you can't get back. Lying in bed as realities bleed together, this waking one absorbing that dreaming one until the latter is no more than a smokey wisp. The sorrow that comes from the loss of a world that was perfectly real, in which I had no knowledge I was dreaming. And yet...it was a relief.
The noise in my head has been turned down enough that I can think again. The roiling, ceaseless, irrational anger of the last few weeks has released me.
As to the dream, enough of it remains I could write paragraphs – even though I know the heart of it is gone. I was in Louisiana, which wasn't Louisiana, but was. There was a vast black lake that I admitted "is my god." There was a young woman, a plainspoken, red-headed witch whose intelligence humbled me. She had freckles. There were two enormous quarries beyond the lake, both abandoned and overgrown. All the world teetered on the brink of an apocalypse I can't remember, and this witch had taken me as her lover and was exasperated that I wouldn't accept my own magical abilities, which all arose from that awful lake. It was a wicked, wicked black magic in me. Dream worlds do not have to obey the rules of waking worlds. It was terrifying, beautiful, gruesome, awe-inspiring, sad, and joyous.
But now I'm here again. There, probably a hundred years have already passed without me.
A hundred years at least.
Today we do go to the library. I have 12 days to do a month's worth of work. And it has to be done. No extensions.