I’m w/Dad + Ricker and we’re on a boat, or propped up against one part of a large ship which is (will be?) our home and we gaze out over a vast deck (usually unused) and the deck is covered w/arms. Human arms. Ripped off and planted shoulder-first to form a bizarre art-field. Looking, now, I realize that I had created this madness the previous winter, ripping the arms off dead soldiers frozen in the ice. It had been, or seemed, creative + unique. Now, as spring sun thaws the deck of the ship, warms our backs, I see only rotting wet flesh, the remains of some half-baked fantasy. We all (Dad, Ricker, myself) waver between surprised acceptance of a (certainly) unique piece, true, and simple revulsion. How to clear it, becomes a concern. The fear occurs that the very air we breathe may already be contaminated by the pestilence.

Later I sit w/table of women, drinking Scotch + ice. One is jealous and wants my attention. I think (to myself… to Shawn?) that I definitely have (and about time!) IT! Again, a place to live. A house. Semi-fame of someone’s sister. Am I moving here? Apparently so.