I wouldn't have thought that so many of my dreams so far would be about sex. But part of what was interesting about the idea of doing this was the aspect of self-discovery. The other part of doing this that I thought would be interesting and challenging was ... well let's say, being honest with the source material. So when the dream was vulgar, write it vulgar. When the dream was sexy, write it sexy. When the dream was horrific, do that. That was the theory. I found after I wrote the last entry that I felt a little uncomfortable in the lunch room at work, self-conscious that someone could have already read that risque entry (even though it included what was really only a very tame sex scene). I have written more graphic scenes - you can find them easy enough - but in all of those stories, it wasn't my cock I was writing about. This seemed to me, sitting in the lunch room, a significant difference.
The other thing is that I have an inventory of past dreams, some even from when I was a kid, which I figured I'd add in on nights when I didn't dream or didn't remember them. But so far, ever since I decided to do this, I've dreamt every night. I wouldn't have thought I dreamt so frequently.
Last nights dreams were about frustration, loss and anger.
I was curling and it was a very competitive game. Not the Brier but some sort of elite 'spiel. I was skip. The stone from the other team was on its way and as it entered the house, one of my players kicked a dead stone into the rings where it stopped the moving rock. We stood there in shock. What...?!?!? Why had he done that? The other team's skip was quick to come in and announced that his stone would have hit the stone in the front of the house and split it off, the shooter going this way and the other stone going that way, both stones out-counting mine on the wings and therefore counting three. He arranged the house accordingly. Stunned, I started up the ice to throw my stone and the shock gave way to anger. I turned back and started demanding to know who had the best view of what happened. Would that rock really have hit the other one just so, just exactly that way? Where the hell was the official? I wanted an official. I was pissed.
I was in a house. There were a few of us combing through this place, I'm not sure why. At the top of a landing I noticed a space in the boards where I knew there had once been a set of stairs down to a space below. I could see through the space a piece of broken glass, sort of like a horizontal window that had been covered. No not covered, hidden. I peeled away the board and dropped down into the space below. It was brighter down there - big airy rooms with an old-fashioned feel to it, knickknacks, old settees, armchairs and plants. On a table was a book with a two photographs. The man in the photographs was Evan Hunter and I looked at these pictures a long time, coming to understand that these pictures were taken not many minutes after he'd died. Presently me and my group were confronted by a man, some authority figure, tall and very angry. We were oh so wrong for being down here and I patiently (and vainly, I knew) explained about the piece of wood and the gap through which I could see the broken glass.
Fighting broke out. Guns, pistols, explosions. Nic Cage stood on the top of a moving deuce-and-a-half whose roof was like the top of a tin metal shed. He popped the pin from a grenade and lobbed it under the canopy (roof) into the back of the truck where the enemy troops sat. This turned out to be completely ineffective as suddenly everyone who had been in the back of the truck was suddenly gathered around him on the roof.
No comments:
Post a Comment