dreams...
She went missing about a week ago, people were looking for her ever since. I was looking for her too, in my own way, heard rustlings up ahead on the trail, would run at them but find nothing, would call out her name, no reply.
But today, finally, we, (the children and I) found her, face down dug into, clawed into a shallow grave of her own digging. She must have hid out here from everyone, until finally she collapsed....
It's a long walk from here out of the park, and while we leave I cover her up with some sort of blanket. And we meet at the edge of the park a midget on a date, it was him who reported her missing and we give him the bad news and he accuses us of doing nothing and I explain things to him and he just goes back to eating his picnic with his date.
It's beginning to snow, and we get home and then the dream starts to get real weird...
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Two nights running, a mish-mash of odd dreams, waking up with the scrambled recollections, they seem to make no sense. And one jumps into the other, I have the impression that they are all sharing the same wooden box, nesting one within another or joined by invisible wires. One, vaguely recalled this morning: I have a frog, small, slippery, with a bar-code upon it, and I am using it as a magician might use a dove or rabbit, as a prop for my tricks. The frog doesn't like this, it's a rare South-American frog, endangered from the rain forest, strange bar-code birthmark upon it's mouth....and the frog is talking to me, escaping, it smashes a pen holder I had (stained glass, given to me by my mother) and I'm now angry with frog, trying to pick up the glass (careful, it's sharp), find another pen-holder, capture frog (still talking to me, giving me attitude...)...
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"In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea."
More interesting dreams, other people's dreams. In this case, Kubla Khan, a poem written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge - or, more accurately, a fragment of a poem, having emerged from an opium induced slumber he was filled with inspiration and upon writing down the poem found himself interrupted by a persistent traveling salesperson; the dream was lost and he only ever recaptured fragments.
Link: Wiki on Kubla Khan
Link: online-literature - complete poem
Note the ending: "For he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of paradise..."
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As my dreams have been a bit of a bust lately (today, after my nap, a classic waiter's nightmare: At the restaurant, tables keep coming in and I can't keep up, there are different rooms and every time I discover a different room I discover even more tables I have to get to and visit....and when I'm visiting them, I fall asleep....) I've thought to enclose somebody elses.
Tartini's "The Devil's Trill"
Link: Wikipedia
Link: YouTube
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