dream journal

David Hockney was on TV. He was majestically declaiming about something on a grassy, windswept hill. I pressed my face against the screen as I recalled the fan mail I had sent him. I felt a pang of embarrassment, wondering if he actually read them, or if one of his assistants had just thrown them away. My feelings of school-girl infatuation were so intense my heart nearly burst with pain and longing.