A drug I subscribe to has an occasional effect on my dreams. The latest concerns a conception of heaven as a vast cineplex where everyone has their own theatre, in which every thought we ever have (or had, as the case may be) runs in a continuous loop.

Last night's dream had me landing in a cineplex whose component theatres were organized not by the first letter of one's surname or by place of birth but by a system only my subconscious would have knowledge of. For example, why was Lee Atwater's theatre across from Georges Bataille's? And why was Jonbenet Ramsey's next to Louise Bourgeois's?

I toured a number of theatres last night, but the one that lured me was by someone I had never heard of, a woman by the name of Beryl Thigpen.

From what I could gather, Beryl was from the 19th century and lived a short life in a Dutch coastal town. Her favorite colour was yellow, and she wanted her hair to be yellow too. Her father, an English sailor, came and went when she was seven. Shortly after that, her life returned to the beginning

A news service I subscribe to has a sidebar announcing nude pictures of the actor Scarlett Johansson. My first thought was, What does that mean anymore, nude pictures? That someone shopped-out the actor's already see-through evening gown?

While considering the structure of a paragraph-ending sentence, I went looking for these pictures, only to be distracted by documentation of a Sister Mary Corita Kent exhibition opening at Vancouver's Contemporary Art Gallery.

What a fine idea, combining Kent's seriographs with the coloured formal compositions of Frederico Herrera and the engravings of 18th century English pastoralist Thomas Bewick. Thank you, Nigel Prince!

A small room above a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

This morning I picked a bowl of tomatoes from the vines outside. I chopped them up and added purple onion, cilantro, some white navy beans I left soaking over night, olive oil, lemon juice and sea salt. In an hour I will be ready to eat them.

In the meantime, I will read a little more of Lane Dunlop's 1969 translation of Francis Ponge's Soap (1967).

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