Words are like clothes; I put them on when I wake-up and take them off when I go to sleep. Words, like numbers provide co-ordinates. It is by means of words that the body of experience is able to systematize the dream. The system is a system of freedoms and constraints, a political system. Imagination is free but only within the constraints of written words; it cannot imagine except by means of metaphors.

Words, like clothes, make the man. The man is a translation of the dream, an expression of the symbolic imagination in words. Written words sever the umbilical cord; the "genuine two-in-one", the intrauterine body is cut in twain. Suddenly there is a family of four, that minimum number of co-ordinates, or, persons required to establish an inside and outside and before and after, period.

This writing is a serious business; without it there is no birth/death. I don't exist in the absence of writing. Writing is rather like running for your life. Harris Creek is still this morning, like the reflecting pool in which we first discover ourselves.

"It has been written." Fate , or, Destiny is written. Once the writing begins, its end is written, not unlike my body of experience. I am not just a character in a book, I am the book itself; I am the writing itself. There is no author, only the process of writing, or, translation. And what is it that is translated, if not my intrauterine dream.

History is written; there is no history before writing begins. History, like Freudian dream interpretation, seeks the latent words hidden within the symbolic images of the manifest dream. To awaken is to begin writing. It's all words; myself is composed of words. If you want to understand how reality is constructed read Freud's writings on dream interpretation. To slip between the sheets is to slip out of reality. The dream-work is unreal, a process which translates words into symbolic images.

Freud assumes, or, pretends to assume, that words are latent, that reality is hidden behind the unreal. To make such an assumption creates a bias in my experience. I am able to deceive myself. The whole experience is both real and unreal and short of making an assumption, I can't say what is hidden behind what. The primitive and the civilized do not stand side by side; they are superimposed, one upon the other. I think Freud knows this. Freud is a great writer of stories.