How much of it is February blues? The uncomfortable reminder of Valentine's Day? Combine these with ratings woes. Nobody reads? Why do I write? Hey. It's my blog. I'll cry if I want to.
Besides, I've answered that question somewhere else.
I've dreamed, although not so clearly as when I decided to start writing about them. I dreamed last night, unclear jumbles that I allowed to become more vague as the day became less new so that I only remember one snippet of me and my dad and his friend buying popcorn from some people who were famous.
So instead about writing what I've let myself not remember, I'll take this moment to write about the first dreams I can remember.
I was regularly displaced from my surroundings growing up and thanks to that can remember how old I was (or about) just by remembering the house I lived in. This house in this dream was in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia on a dead-end street. That would put me somewhere between five and nine years old. There are two specific dreams I remember from dreaming in this house as a child; one of them recurred sort of regularly and the other one might have.
In one, the less-interesting of the two, I am the child that was me, walking along a rock wall on Windmill Road. There is a Hall along that road where once in real-life I played guitar and sang as very young boy. It was near here, this wall in the dream.
I walked because I couldn't run. I wanted to run so badly and so I tried so hard. I tried and I tried and I tried but I couldn't get my legs to move fast enough. Somehow, it was very important that I run. But I also had my eyes closed and I couldn't open them. Blind and mired in the dream, I walked across the top of a stone wall until finally, near the end of the dream as I remember it, I was able to burst into a run ... filled with both relief and fear; relief in that I was finally able to run, fear in that I might fall from the top of the wall because I still could not open my eyes.
In my other dream, the one I had at least twice and maybe more, my house fell over.
Our house on that Dartmouth dead-end street had a hallway stretching down to the room an the end. I shared this room with my brother, me on the upper bunk, him on the lower. In later years our bedroom would be moved down into the basement and the bunk beds were separated and set on the floor, but at the time of the dream
(dreams)
we were still up on the main floor. The hallway had rooms off it to the left (bathroom and master bedroom) and the right (guest bedroom where my grandmother stayed) but take it to the end and that's where my brother and I slept.
Standing in this hallway, I could feel the house rocking to and fro. The family ran to the front door and down the path and the steps to the sidewalk and the road where we turned back to watch as the house leaned toward us and then leaned away, lean and retreat until finally it tipped toward us and kept going, not collapsing so much as falling on its face like a drunk.
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