Posts Tagged ‘Dreamtime’

Winter of my discontent: Dreamtime

January 14, 2011


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I said before that writing about my dreams was too disturbing, but that is a cop-out. This dream I had about two years ago. Its winter setting was emphatically a part of its ominous overtones.


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I dreamt that I was in a frozen town with my daughter, who was very young in the dream, and a man I had used to be with. I became separated from them during some type of dreary, macabre parade. There was something wrong and sinister about it, but I wasn’t sure what, and I was caught up in looking for my daughter and the man.


Winter Carnival, 1909.

The procession of people were all bundled up in raggedy black clothes, like Victoriana gone to seed, and the “floats” were black carriages making tracks down a main street in the snow.


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As I paced the street looking for the rest of my party, blowing on my hands and calling out for my daughter and the man, I saw a pulpy mess in the road and smeared, reddish-purple blood and tissue in the ruts left by the carriages.

They’d run over something that I had the impression was small and helpless but also somehow dear and marine, like an otter or seal or something. Each carriage kept rolling on, continually running over and through the remains of whatever this now bisected and strewn-out creature had once been.


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I tried to escape the image by going down different side alleys in the frozen town, but they all lead back to the same main street. The sight of the gore and entrails against the snow was chilling and horrifying on a deep-down level which was out of proportion to the event, like as if it had some weighty significance that my mind was shying away from fully realizing. I woke myself up with the kind of shock and sweat that suggested it had been a terrible nightmare, but I could not, when recollecting the details of the dream, understand why it upset me so much.


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I never thought about it until just now, but I guess it must have been my daughter in the street. I think that’s what my mind kept pulling me back from seeing.

This has not been an at-all uplifting or illuminating “Winter of my discontent” entry. But it does represent the second time I’ve attempted a Dreamtime entry. The first one was about a hanged woman. Based on that, you may think that I’m not doing so hot on the Dreamtime sharing, but that’s actually about the usual caliber of my dreams.

Take-two Tuesday — Dreamtime: The Hanged Woman

December 21, 2010

This entry was originally posted on December 3, 2009 at 10:01 a.m. I’d originally intended for Dreamtime to be a series of entries, but writing about my dreams was so disturbing that this ended up being a one-off.

Recurring dream — I am in a bedroom with my back to the closet. I turn around and find a hanged woman in a blue nightgown.


“It’s Hard To Say That I’d Rather Stay Awake When I’m Asleep Because My Dreams Are Bursting At The Seams” by inspire*dream*create on flickr

The air in the room feels thick but sounds tinny, like it does in a doublewide, you know, the way the sound and the air are different, I guess because it’s perched on a foundation poured in to the ground rather than dug in, so it’s not flush up against the earth?, and the windowsill is aluminum. She’s in front of the closet, which has a sliding door with inset slats. She’s always high enough up, on a short enough noose, that her face is angled down but very near the ceiling, and I have to tilt my head back and look up to see it. I do not know why I always have to look at her face.


“Hang’er” by Dominic Rouse. Click through to his website.

She doesn’t sway or kick or open her eyes or anything predictably horror-movie-ish like that. In a way, the certainty that she is absolutely dead and has been for some time is worse and even more uncanny than if I had got to the scene just in time for her death throes. Because I never realize right away that I’m in The Room with her, or that it has become That Dream until I turn around and see the closet, and her swollen feet and mottled legs with the blue nightgown at mid-calf.


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The stultifying stillness of the trailer starts beating in my ears, this weird and distant rhythmic roaring, like living near the ocean but if all other life had been extinguished and only the water remained on earth, like the beginning of time is hurling toward me.

I wake myself up.

Langston Hughes Month: “The Dream Keeper”

May 26, 2010


Photograph by Lloyd Hughes.

Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamer,
Bring me all your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers
Of the world.

— Langston Hughes, “The Dream Keeper.”

Langston Hughes Month: Broken-winged birds

May 11, 2010


Hold fast to your dreams,
for if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
that cannot fly.

— “Dreams,” Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes Month, Inaugural Edition: “Dream-dust”

May 9, 2010

This May 22nd will mark the forty-third anniversary of the death of the dashing, amazing, trailblazing and talented Harlem Renaissance writer Langston Hughes. I totally don’t know shit enough about him or the width of his body of work as I ought to, besides the obvious anthologized poem choices and blurbs I’ve read in textbooks through the years, and I don’t like that. I’d like that to change this month. Join me! I’m starting … now.

Gather out of star-dust,
Earth-dust,
Cloud-dust,
Storm-dust,
And splinters of hail,
One handful of dream-dust,
Not for sale.


— “Dream-dust,” Langston Hughes.

Dreamtime: The Hanged Woman

December 3, 2009

Recurring dream — I am in a bedroom with my back to the closet. I turn around and find a hanged woman in a blue nightgown.


“It’s Hard To Say That I’d Rather Stay Awake When I’m Asleep Because My Dreams Are Bursting At The Seams” by inspire*dream*create on flickr

The air in the room feels thick but sounds tinny, like it does in a doublewide, you know, the way the sound and the air are different, I guess because it’s perched on a foundation poured in to the ground rather than dug in, so it’s not flush up against the earth?, and the windowsill is aluminum. She’s in front of the closet, which has a sliding door with inset slats. She’s always high enough up, on a short enough noose, that her face is angled down but very near the ceiling, and I have to tilt my head back and look up to see it. I do not know why I always have to look at her face.


“Hang’er” by Dominic Rouse. Click through to his website.

She doesn’t sway or kick or open her eyes or anything predictably horror-movie-ish like that. In a way, the certainty that she is absolutely dead and has been for some time is worse and even more uncanny than if I had got to the scene just in time for her death throes. Because I never realize right away that I’m in The Room with her, or that it has become That Dream until I turn around and see the closet, and her swollen feet and mottled legs with the blue nightgown at mid-calf.


Stock

The stultifying stillness of the trailer starts beating in my ears, this weird and distant rhythmic roaring, like living near the ocean but if all other life had been extinguished and only the water remained on earth, like the beginning of time is hurling toward me.

I wake myself up.