Hold me in those eyes,
Don’t drop me now.
Suspend me, pull me in
Closing slowly until…
Pull away, avoid contact;
I’m sorry – we’re both sorry.
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not like this.
No page from your imaginary script,
No cue from the director,
This is wrong.
So why do I find myself repeating that tired cliche?
Why do I see this same scene
Replayed before me every time I close my eyes?
If this was so wrong,
Why have I carried it with me for years?
Why does the memory still raise a smile?
And why am I unable to imagine
Anyone in your place?
I dreamt I was somewhere. a building, a venue, a stadium or something. Out through the window I saw a huge owl perch on a tree stump. I looked again and there was another owl, darker than the first. Suddenly a third, running along the ground, stretching its wings out in a silent dance. The under-feathers were iridescent green and its eyes were huge as it continued its dance.
Then I was running, trying to escape the building, but every door I took, every escalator led to a dead end filled with misbehaving children. Then the children were gone – even the one who dropped his headphones on the escalator, the one I stopped to help. The bridges were lowered and the doors were sealed.
Suddenly I was no longer in the venue… I was in a wooden house. I had cooked food for someone who was late. Always late. “That’s OK,” said the hostess, “We can have noodles and salad outside.”
In the blink of an eye I was ascending in a lift up to the 5th floor, ascending to the point where my friend had jumped. I thought I could stop him, prevent it from happening, but even as I pushed the lift button I knew it was too late. And yet I still tried.
And then I was alone.
I had a dream last night which left an impression. Details are, as always, sketchy, but here are the fragments that I remember:
I was in a city I had never been to, and I have recollections of needing to visit a grand temple for some sort of service. Not because I was a follower of their religion, but because I wanted to see the temple in its full glory.
I was in a room – a kitchen, maybe? It seemed to be part of a dormitory or hostel of some sort. I was sewing messages onto fabric, but doing so at an extremely rapid pace. It seemed as though I was leaving a message for someone. I recall being asked a question about my friends’ religions, and I was making a number of bracelets for each of the different religions – Christian, Sikh, Hindu, Agnostic, Discordian… The bracelet for the discordians initially had the form of an actual bracelet that I once made for somebody, but it was left changed at the end.
The person with whom I was communicating in this strange way was not actually there – I knew who she was, but we had not met face to face. She responded to my messages with one of her own, a beautiful painting of a moon in a red sky. I responded by painting my own picture (which I cannot remember the details of), and then when I looked at the moon I saw a message hand written underneath it. I cannot remember the exact words, but it was to the effect of: “I am confident and self-sure to the point where people consider me vain and arrogant, you will not like me”.
I then found a door into a small room which was filled with paintings, beautiful paintings of people and places, all framed, hung and forgotten. As I looked at all of them I grew incredibly sad and began to weep. I knew I was being foolish, expressing such feeling for paintings, but I could not hold back the tears as I thought of these Incredible pictures – people, places, memories – seen and enjoyed by nobody except the artist.
Then she appeared, and held me and told me it was OK. I laughed and apologised for my ridiculous tears, at which point she kissed me.
I don’t remember what happened next, but I recall being in a car with the girl and two of her friends. We were laughing about ridiculous game-bugs that people had logged onto testing databases (The only one I remember was “The computer is on fire”, which I guess is funny because it’s not a software issue, it’s a hardware issue). I don’t know where we were headed, but looking at my watch, I could see I was late for the temple service…
That’s all I remember. When I woke up, I discovered the tears had been real. The temple I have never seen before. The paintings I don’t recall seeing before. But I know her face.
I dreamt that I
Spied that pale rider
Out on the road to nowhere.
Betrayed by murderous intent,
she scanned the horizon
East to west.
Without so much as a
Shift in her saddle,
She raised her head and
Drank in the air.
Seeking the uncharacteristically
Kicking the stirrups,
She cantered across the
Dirt caked road,
Kicking out a billowing shroud
Which expanded defiantly
As she moved ever closer.
Yet still I evaded her soul-less gaze.
This encounter was not like before.
No quiet sympathy,
No words of reassurance.
If I glimpsed the void in her eyes
I knew it would be the for the last time.
Yet as she rode slowly away
I stared, entranced by her beauty…
And longed for her embrace.
Another strange dream.
New house which I didn’t want,
Now bound by contract.
So last night I had a bizarre dream in which I scrawled a grafitto in the form of a poem on the wall in a dressing room of a theatre. In my dream I found the poem hilarious. In real life… well I guess it’s still kind of funny, although I have no idea what it means. Here is that poem:
White girls can party;
Fat girls can roll.
White girls can 27;
Fat girls can porn.
NB: I have no idea what “27” means in this context. Nor have I ever used the word “porn” as a verb (transitive or intransitive).
Dreamt of events long
In the past, and of people
I knew long ago