Dreamed night before last of Krishna the Incredibly Beautiful, the dream being a progressive revelation ending like a Disney movie with his (not explicitly sexual) embrace of Kali--unless it was one of his lovely cowgirls--impersonated by Gloria as I knew her thirty-five years ago. I didn't realize until the final, sweet (no tongue) kiss, coincident with the moment of waking, that Krishna/Kali was what it had been about. I did not exactly cry to dream again, but I felt keenly all day that I'd had a visitation from the Collective Unconscious--So what if the fraud Jung has over-familiarly besmirched the concept? I can't think what else to call it.

On my way to bridge yesterday, read Clifford D. Simak's short story (in an anthology) Lulu: sheer, hilarious delight. Almost I cried to have it end so soon. And overnight and today, on a CD which I had thought to be wholly works of Tomas Luis de Victoria, I have been listening over and over to Alonso Lobo's 'Versa est in Luctum,' written, says the blurb, for the funeral of Felipe II, and if so, several degrees of heavenly beauty and profundity above its subject.