Your father is younger in the dream.
Not simply younger, but returned to some unmarked age before the body had acquired its final history. He is among other people, and you are gathering to work on a film, although the film itself remains somewhere beyond you, a thing not yet assembled.
There is movement everywhere. People arriving, crossing the room, speaking over one another, carrying intentions that seem to belong to different films. You are involved somehow, though you have brought nothing with you. You have the uneasy sense that you should have been prepared.
For a moment you think of the Dream Cave.
You could always use that.
But the film isn’t yours. At least you don’t think it is. You are inside it without being its subject, part of a gathering that cannot quite become a gathering. You keep moving around the possibility of beginning.
Your father is there, younger than himself, and somehow this does not seem strange.
What is strange is everything else: the feeling of being implicated without knowing in what, of belonging to something whose shape remains just beyond recognition. The more everyone moves, the less organised the world becomes.
Perhaps this is what remains when a story has not yet decided whether it wants to be told.
The cave waits somewhere in the background, neither refuge nor answer, simply another room in the architecture of the unfinished.
And your father, for once, does not belong to the past.
He is there among you, waiting for the film to begin.
Notitia Health 
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