At Peter Nabakov's cabin in the Carmel Highlands

John says that I sat up last night in my sleep and I said an eloquent, polished paragraph on why I was afraid. I do remember sitting up and what I said as being lucid and clear, but I can't remember what I said. John doesn't tell me.

I remember seeing the orange juice container in the semi darkness under the full moon and the color, like the edge of an oil pastel stick, seem to float right off the bottle and come out past me. That's when I leapt up and discoursed theories on this deep subconscious fear that I have. But what is it?

I remember talking about the universe, traveling to constellations, well etherized. John asked me if this fear had anything to do with relationships. I said yes and no.

Yes, a deep fear is surfacing, and yes I'm afraid of the outcome, because of my mother's madness. Logically, I know her insanity is not congenital, not inherited, but tell my psyche that. 

Was it because I wore pearls to bed? Ah, the moonlight on the trees. Distant sigh of the ocean.

The last time I was in Monterey I was with sweet old Bob, an ex-boyfriend. Being here again with John has loosened some of those fears from their moorings. 

January 24, 1986

Weirdly, as I entered this post, decades after the event, in 2015, or 2016, I kept thinking of Kat & Boz Williams. Turn's out it was Boz's father's cabin, and Peter Nabakov, Vladimir's nephew, was living there. But none of this backstory has anything to do with my dream image. Just a lead as to how we wound up at the cabin. It was through Boschka's connection. I finally got the story put to rest when I visited Kat in Guerneville, when I was photographing some artwork of Boschka Layton's. Multiple worlds overlapping.