Crumbling

My soul itself may be straight and good;
ah, but my heart, my bent-over blood,
all the distortions that hurt me inside--
it buckles under these things.
It has no garden, it has no sun,
it hangs on my twisted skeleton
and, terrified, flaps its wings.

from Rilke: "The Dwarf's Song"

Now I remember the dream that woke me last night: I was living in a house, near an ocean. The house was two storeys, and on the second floor there was a wide porch facing the sea. There I would sit. I had Pomona, one of my cats, with me. People visited; there was coming and going. And then, on a sunny day, the house simply collapsed, fell to the ground. I was sitting on the porch when it happened. I woke up as it fell, before I could hit the ground.

I used to have a recurring dream. In this dream, which varied in location, I might be standing on a corner talking to someone. Then, suddenly, I would fly away, just like a bird: up into the air, higher and higher, until the ground's details gave way the the bold large shapes of landscape seen from above as through an airplane window. I understand that dreams of flying are a sign of good fortune. I have not had one of these dreams in a long time.