3:08AM. I've been reading a great biography of St. Francis (details later, I'm writing in the dark in case one of the kids wakes and thinks the downstairs light is an indication morning is near). I just passed an interesting discussion of how seriously Francis and the people of his time took dreams and visions. Last night I thought, well, if I have dreams tonight, I should write them down. Here goes:

I was in Port, sort of an idealized Port, with the smell of saltwater, or at least Port early on a foggy summer morning where you like the fog but know it's going to burn off by noon. There was a convention center/hotel somewhere in town, and I was attending an NCATE (college accreditation thing) conference (well, it wasn't just NCATE, I think, but I can't sense what else it might have been). This arrogant literature professor was teaching, for some reason, the difference between two books called "Burn" referring back to his grad school days or something. I didn't like him. I was driving to pick up my mom somewhere, near the Port hill, when I wrote a beautiful song that sounded like a cross between Vic Chesnutt and Wilco in that it had four instruments, drums, piano, guitar, and synthesizers, repeating the same riff over and over again. My brother didn't like it, and I got mad, so I taunted his habit about using the word "hobo" in folk songs and he started to cry. I don't remember more than that. More later.