Like the tide I move in and out of wakefulness and dream. Every twenty-four hours this movement repeats itself. Each morning with the rising sun, I am reborn, born again from my mother's womb, carried out of the dream into the real world. Some desire that does not belong to me carries me out. Or is she pushing? Once out I must act; reality will not support passivity; the real world ain't your mama's womb. In reality the dreamer has to go to work.

I work because my mother has cast me out, or, because I felt that she was trying to smother me and I began working my way out of her now fatal embrace. Mybody and myself grow tired of work, and I begin to feel her pulling me back in. At some point of time within each twenty-four hour cycle, I cease working and fall back into the passivity of her embrace. No work is necessary to the dream.

We never completely separate from her who mothers us; we are tethered to mother's womb. Birth is always and only re-birth. The fantastic body is never fully realized; the fruits of my labor are temporary. We are homeless; there is no place to call home, neither in reality nor in the dream; we are compelled to keep moving, in and out.