October 30,2002
What is all this vigorous dreaming? My nights are filled to capacity with unlikely scenarios, adventure, and encounters. A vivid contrast to my days I might add. I awake exhausted, more tired than when I lay down the night before. My brain, or the part that dreams, feels like it’s on steroids. It is occupied with something, busy refurbishing its interior for some new purpose. Running through the reels at high speed in order to make room for new images. A mid-life brain cleaning. He was sitting there last night at a type writer, dressed in an outfit I actually remember him wearing. The flannel trousers, the pale pink shirt, the gray cardigan, the pointed, laced winklepicker shoes, like a post-war English poet who had, through some anachronism, familiarized himself with punk. It was a gratifying dream, even though it was made clear to me from the faded and tentative nature of his physical presence that he was a ghost. I was made to feel foolish in that there was an inherent obligation in the dream to tell his family that I had encountered this ghost of their son and sibling at a typewriter. The pleasure came from the recognition that he might have been a writer of some sort had he lived longer.
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What is all this vigorous dreaming? My nights are filled to capacity with unlikely scenarios, adventure, and encounters. A vivid contrast to my days I might add. I awake exhausted, more tired than when I lay down the night before. My brain, or the part that dreams, feels like it’s on steroids. It is occupied with something, busy refurbishing its interior for some new purpose. Running through the reels at high speed in order to make room for new images. A mid-life brain cleaning. He was sitting there last night at a type writer, dressed in an outfit I actually remember him wearing. The flannel trousers, the pale pink shirt, the gray cardigan, the pointed, laced winklepicker shoes, like a post-war English poet who had, through some anachronism, familiarized himself with punk. It was a gratifying dream, even though it was made clear to me from the faded and tentative nature of his physical presence that he was a ghost. I was made to feel foolish in that there was an inherent obligation in the dream to tell his family that I had encountered this ghost of their son and sibling at a typewriter. The pleasure came from the recognition that he might have been a writer of some sort had he lived longer.
- rachael 10-30-2002 7:11 pm