I don't have holiday spirit, exactly. It's more like a wintertime enthusiasm. I'm a seasonal enthusiast.

I dreamt about glasses again, only this time not my own. I was with Donald Trump, helping him pick out a pair of glasses. He wanted a pair with pink lenses, and the optician was guiding him toward a more sedate choice, which he would be better off with in certain business situations, but I pointed out that he could easily afford to get both, and then just wear whichever suited the occasion. Donald Trump and his buildings sort of rile me up, but in my sleep I was sympathetic to his sweet stupidity.

I also dreamt that I found an old machine with songs programmed into it, like an mp3 player except that it held only four or five songs, and except that the songs couldn't be changed, and except that it wasn't digital. The only song I can remember from it is This Year's Love, which I think is a song that I secretly like. I found myself sort of singing it today, which was interesting, because I think I learned the words in my sleep.

It is sort of dark today, because of the clouds.

Last night, before I went to sleep, I read an article about lucid dreaming, which sort of made me sad. I like not having control of my dreams, I like the other world helplessness of it. I don't want to decide what happens, I want to see what happens. Maybe it isn't really sad, I don't know. I guess, as it stands, my dreams are already fairly lucid. I remember at least one dream every morning, and I think that I'm vaguely aware while I'm dreaming that what's happening isn't real. I think I could be more aware, but I resist it. It's mostly the control thing that bothers me. I don't want to write my own dreams any more than I already do, and I guess I wonder why other people do.

An expert on lucid dreaming interviewed for the article was quoted as saying, "The dream body is sensual but unphysical. It's also primeval. Curiously, we don't dream about writing, for example, because it's a relatively recent skill we've acquired; but we frequently dream about overcoming difficulty or danger, because that's a human experience that goes back thousands of years." This only makes me more distrustful of the whole thing, because I dream about writing all the time. Just the other night when Sawyer was in my dream I was trying to write his name but I didn't know how to spell it, and he wouldn't tell me. (In my dream, his name wasn't Sawyer.) He kept mumbling something that didn't make sense, and I kept getting it wrong and then crossing it out. It kept coming out as either "paroxysmal" or as another word I can't remember. It started with a c. Neither was his name.

Oh, well. Christmas was fine, anyway. At one point I looked down and found myself surrounded by several tiny dead fish. I looked up at Jackpot and said, very solemnly, "This is horrifying. And it was. And I was awake at the time. Still, it's not as bad as it sounds, and Christmas was fine, anyway.