Anyone know what it means when your dream is a rerun?

I woke up startled this morning after having the same dream I had the night before. In the dream I'm on a medical table, head and shoulders propped up on my elbows like you might do if you were on the beach and looking out at the ocean. But here there is no ocean. I'm looking down at a medical-masked surgeon who's flayed open my chest. He's pulling out, hand-over-hand, what looks like cottage-cheese-filled surgical tubing. Only it's not tubing. It's something organic that's been growing inside me. "Can you feel this?" he asks. "No," I say. Then he repeats the question, scratches his head, and tells me, "Well, it's only a matter of time."

So of course I woke up thinking about my manuscript, which I hope is only "a matter of time." I've received some helpful, positive feedback from some readers, and I feel good about it on the whole. Ready to start sending it out.

Still waiting to hear back on a small handful of chapbook publishers that are considering various smaller manuscripts. News again that I'm a finalist at one of these publishers. We'll see. I'm not getting my hopes up, though it would be nice to get a grouping of my poems published together. I mean, I do believe in the poems, but after you've been designated a "finalist" several times, one feels a little leery of the term. But, then again, I'm still waiting to hear back from four places, and I'd be happy to place with any of them. Should hear back from one by the beginning of next week if they follow their pattern from previous years. One in September, one more by the end of the month, and one more who-knows-when.



Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored
means you have no

Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

John Berryman
from The Dream Songs