A dream from Saturday:

One of the Guerilla Photogrphers had me in some second story, abandoned, two-hundred-year-old house (with broken plaaster and lath showing through) and had a huge four-hundred-pound grecian-corinthian mirror set up. I could see her, with camera, in the mirror, so I know the photo was of me.

They are always threatening to take 'The Photo' of me. Some sort of self or personality defining shot.

As the camera flashed, I saw through the lens in a swoop of perspective that left me nauseous and disembodied. In the mirror was the me from before 'The Attack', wearing his best leather biker jacket, bare-chested, leather-panted, and biker booted. At the moment the shutter snapped, black and white, the mirror shattered right on my face. Right on the impact point of 'The Attack', my left orbit.

I woke up with a swift intake of breath, covered in a clammy sweat. The symbolism unmistakable and icy.

OK. There. I told you about it. Maybe I will feel better. Maybe I will let them take my picture someday.