at the periphery of perception, i extend my hand gropingly feeling for my dreams of future casting. i must have them, mustn’t i? i facilitate workshops in which i guide the group into the gaps of peripheral space in hopes of pulling down into recognizable forms these their hidden dreams. i’d love to say i am so selfless, i am there as purely guide for other, but not so. in my own ego squawddling and skittering, i hunt for my dreams. many have smacked me in the face as an open palm plant to the forehead. they have come without my forerecognition, without the grope or hunt. no dream quest set upon. in the wake of even only the temporally near “has beens”, they are easy to list when my palm is pulled free of face — the dopt, the hermitage, the microforest, my WASH and WASHers, my BOXes and C.SAWs, my borrowed side sliced trailer tire that led me to tubular harvesting and stitching. i haven’t asked, i haven’t had to grope or fumble foolishly like an adolescent on his first date. the peripherally unperceived dream just arrived, gifts finally consciously unwrapped with that forceful facial palm plant. not a one could i have done without, nor one i count as earned, not one that could be passed off as anything but grace. no dream quest ventured upon.