+fatman+, flickr
I don't dream vividly anymore. Not often. Just a few over my most recent years. They have grown more timid in time. Perhaps they have grown more adult; pasty. These last few weeks I have had several. My thoughts have not leaned towards... any particular subject. And yet. (and yet). You have creeped into two recently. Sometimes you walk past. A Hitchock cameo. A few weeks ago, I walked down a dreamscape street in the Markaz. You walked towards me. We stared. Smiled. ___-Hi. _____-hHello. __We kept walking, that was that. Saddest dream I've ever had. I awoke trepid, gently shaking.
Then, there was last week. A dream constructed entirely around our noncommunication. A full car drove around half-completed construction zones. We sat in the backseat, I on the left, face in a book, you on the right, eyes to the yellow dust (think saffron) outside the window. A body between us. Untouching. A passive knowing of each others presence. The last scene is in a white-roomed dormitory. I stand, my chest to your back. I suppose you know it's me. Breathing can be quiet, but it's always obvious. I have my hands at my sides. You take a decisive step backwards, fall to my chest. Your hand slips behind you a little and grasps my hand. The dream ends.
Are we ghosts? When I dream of someone, are they there (there/here... whatever). If someone dreams of me- which doesn't happen often, am I there, with them? Some part of me that senses it, and packs a little knapsack, and goes for a stroll, kissing the insides of dormant lips of people who've called me with soulestial murmurs only my soul senses. I like the idea. Midnight's children, running and giggling down vacant, sleek, suburban strees... looking around from time to time for the right address. Taking a breath and floating up to second story bedroom windows. Gliding through glass (feels cold for just one second), just in time to fly a kite on a beach. __go crabbing in the rain. __exhort us to take some different exit. __hold our hands under ethereal trees. __sit besides us silently during car trips from nowhere to nowhere else.
I like the idea. Running from star to star, tracing lines with the stardust I kick up; look, I'm Piscium. So unearthly!, the places we visit. Metal fences. My grandfather's kitchen. A busstop I've never seen. Faces. faces. Mumbled words. All my misunderstood me's. The consequence of my unheard heartbeats (from having no-one lie against my chest for too long)... all my unseen Autumn's.
Alas.
I suppose we never know who needs who. who calls who... and what siren song it is that pulls me out from my body, leaving behind the draped white sheets of virgins and loose nautical sails and shrouds, to meet you at a green garden spotted with yellow daffodils we're sure are stars.
* * *
For those of you who read before... the novel is finished. I really want to quote the last line right now... but won't. But know that it is the perfect line. Instead I'll offer a potential title for the next (still in gestation) novel, which is a good line to end on also:
We Walked Across Crushed White Stones
(though now I know they were stars)
a (second) novel
A. P. OldGuy
I don't dream vividly anymore. Not often. Just a few over my most recent years. They have grown more timid in time. Perhaps they have grown more adult; pasty. These last few weeks I have had several. My thoughts have not leaned towards... any particular subject. And yet. (and yet). You have creeped into two recently. Sometimes you walk past. A Hitchock cameo. A few weeks ago, I walked down a dreamscape street in the Markaz. You walked towards me. We stared. Smiled. ___-Hi. _____-hHello. __We kept walking, that was that. Saddest dream I've ever had. I awoke trepid, gently shaking.
Then, there was last week. A dream constructed entirely around our noncommunication. A full car drove around half-completed construction zones. We sat in the backseat, I on the left, face in a book, you on the right, eyes to the yellow dust (think saffron) outside the window. A body between us. Untouching. A passive knowing of each others presence. The last scene is in a white-roomed dormitory. I stand, my chest to your back. I suppose you know it's me. Breathing can be quiet, but it's always obvious. I have my hands at my sides. You take a decisive step backwards, fall to my chest. Your hand slips behind you a little and grasps my hand. The dream ends.
Are we ghosts? When I dream of someone, are they there (there/here... whatever). If someone dreams of me- which doesn't happen often, am I there, with them? Some part of me that senses it, and packs a little knapsack, and goes for a stroll, kissing the insides of dormant lips of people who've called me with soulestial murmurs only my soul senses. I like the idea. Midnight's children, running and giggling down vacant, sleek, suburban strees... looking around from time to time for the right address. Taking a breath and floating up to second story bedroom windows. Gliding through glass (feels cold for just one second), just in time to fly a kite on a beach. __go crabbing in the rain. __exhort us to take some different exit. __hold our hands under ethereal trees. __sit besides us silently during car trips from nowhere to nowhere else.
I like the idea. Running from star to star, tracing lines with the stardust I kick up; look, I'm Piscium. So unearthly!, the places we visit. Metal fences. My grandfather's kitchen. A busstop I've never seen. Faces. faces. Mumbled words. All my misunderstood me's. The consequence of my unheard heartbeats (from having no-one lie against my chest for too long)... all my unseen Autumn's.
Alas.
I suppose we never know who needs who. who calls who... and what siren song it is that pulls me out from my body, leaving behind the draped white sheets of virgins and loose nautical sails and shrouds, to meet you at a green garden spotted with yellow daffodils we're sure are stars.
* * *
For those of you who read before... the novel is finished. I really want to quote the last line right now... but won't. But know that it is the perfect line. Instead I'll offer a potential title for the next (still in gestation) novel, which is a good line to end on also:
We Walked Across Crushed White Stones
(though now I know they were stars)
a (second) novel
A. P. OldGuy
1 comment:
i am determined that when we dream of other people, yours and their souls are concurrently interacting.
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