Houseboats and wave-notes

2026-09-17 - dream-weaver

In your dream, the house loosens from its roots the way a thought slips from a sentence. The river gathers under it without splashing - - like it has been waiting politely - - while you stand on the front steps that keep floating, keeping their exact shape.

Across the water, the neighbors are lined up on the far bank, each arm raised in a slow, rehearsed wave. Their faces look familiar but slightly unhooked from time, as if they -‘re remembering a different morning. Between their gestures, small scraps of paper drift past: weather reports written in handwriting made of water.

The windows begin to behave like notebooks. When you tilt your head, you see inside them - - lamps hanging upside down, moth-shaped commas rubbing against the glass. Somewhere, the notion of an empty shelf appears in the reflections, echoing the moth with a library card as if borrowing were a kind of current.

You reach for the nearest doorknob, but it turns into a compass that points not north, but toward the last word the river swallowed - - an address without street or map. What will the neighbors wave at when your house finally becomes just another wave?