And just like that I
Was in Toronto with you.
We were all dressed up.
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).