I'm sitting by my high school swimming pool. My old friend Joe is there, standing by several buckets full of broken glass, one clear, the rest sorted into pale pinks and roses to deep reds. Joe invites me to join the Glass Game. "It's my own invention!" he says proudly. Two opposing lines of snorkelers stand round the pool. Joe's wearing the whistle and striped shorts of a referee.

Unclear what to do, I say "I'll just watch the first game, if you don't mind."

Joe shoulders a bucket and scatters the clear, jagged glass in the pool.

He blows the whistle, and the snorkelers dive in and try to spot and pick up the glass before it slashes them. It's nearly invisible, and inevitably the water starts reddening with blood from their errors. At last the clear glass starts to be visible as paler shards in the pink water. And then Joe dumps the pink shards on their heads, and then the deeper reds, as blood fills the pool...

As I watch, I talk myself into seeing all this as good clean fun. "It'd be good for me! Challenging... and sociable. I need more group activities."

And wake up scared.

Of myself.

NOTES THAT MORNING

Today I saw a biography of Yukio Mishima. He compartmentalized his life so much that when one side decided suicide was romantic, his other sides were helpless to stop it from acting out the fantasy. Is the dream a warning I'm that fucked up?

Oh! Wait. It's a practical reminder: my friend Mark just invited me to a party, and at his LAST party we all played wild games in the pool till my knees and feet were scraped raw. Sore for days!

This time, be careful, that's all! Don't let my inner Joe take over. And if he does, leave!

I'm not suicidal, just... over-enthusiastic.

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