Interpretation?

This explains a lot about my family, I think. Here's a dream Daniel had the night before my birthday:

I woke from an interesting dream this morning. In it I had been at a meeting of an elite society of RC model airplane fliers (who, by the way, were the cast of American Idol). I happened to run into you at this event. A bunch of funny stuff happened but its all jumbled in my memory.

However, I do remember how it all ended. We decided to go down to the Beach to fly our planes. On the walk, you and I were skipping around, doing some free-style walking while talking in the Jelly Voice. The odd thing was that every time there was a lull in the conversation you would started saying "eep eep eep" in a very rhythmic sort of Jelly Voice. When I questioned you on it, you claimed that you had always done the "Jelly Chirp." And then I realized that my alarm clock makes the same rhythmic chirping when it goes off. This dreamland Megan was an imposter cast by my mind as a disguise for my real
world alarm clock.

Great Questions

I was lucky enough to catch the Swell Season in London last week. It was a truly jaw-dropping concert complete with an amazing opener who first sang in gaelic and then two other "pre-colonial" world languages.

You build a crack in the Tate Modern and everyone says, "That looks like a real crack." On the other side of the world an earth quake is causing mass devastation. We wouldn't know how to create a realistic-looking crack, if the things in our lives didn't fall apart. Then the invented cracks hanging on the wall help us see the cracks in our lives, which inspire more artistic cracks, and so on, in infinite reflections of disrepair until it's a razor cut on a blank canvas, framed and famous.

I'm afraid everything's been said, reflected into oblivion. Every conversation's been had and is recorded somewhere. That there are no new songs. Yes, sing to the Lord a new song. Behold, all things are made new. But I'm tromping through quotes to write a line. I'm filtering out movies to see my life. I'm stuck on the delete key to remove pages and pages of cliche which just pour out of me. See, they pour out. If I really wanted to be original I'd have to make up my own language--at which point I'd probably have to grow dreads and become a nomad together with my german shepherd.

last night with dear Rachel, whose face is responding to the camera