Woke up this morning from a dream where my friend the poet Ruth Schwartz, told me the title for my next book would be "Beware the Inner World." Because I place absolute faith in dream messages, I scrawled it immediately in my notebook which I sleep with, went to the bathroom, and did three morning pages of a rough poem on that topic. I didn't feel like it got deep enough, but it's a start.

This weekend I was mostly tired, with a sweet little burst of energy after breakfast yesterday, when I played basketball with G. (I still sucked, but the good news is I sucked less, that is, I actually got some baskets in.) And sweated a bunch, which must be good.

I know that the dream was telling me, in a teasing way, that I need to turn my attention inward, into the inner world, even with so much happening on the outer plane. (I just don't feel like doing sitting still meditation these days, although my friend Jasch is excited about a new technique called Big Mind, which I'd like to investigate.) My dead mother was in the dream too; I was angry at her because she hadn't read my book, and because in a dispute between Allen Ginsberg and some other people (authorities?) she sided against Ginsberg.

Things are sweet on the home front, C and I simple and gentle with each other. Breakfast in bed, toast, omelets, hot coffee. My Dad is ecstatic because the Red Sox beat the Yankees. I have to read fifty pages of student work by two this afternoon, so I'd better get going on it.