Dreamt a perfect piece of writing; so brilliant, it brings me out of sleep to locate my notepad, slip out of the bedroom, sit by a lamp, record the words.
The words stay in sleep, they don’t follow me, even onto the shallowest shores of wakefulness. A few images drift; a wooden spoon, a metallic blue Fifties Cadillac. It’s 5am, I return to sleep.
The experience repeats, at 8am, only the images differ, only I stay awake this time. We can all write perfection in our sleep.
As the kettle boils, I puzzle out a connection between spoon and car. A wooden spoon stirs up butter, sugar, flour, eggs, creates a latent cake. Cake and Cadillac, both celebratory symbols, some logic is evident.
Dreams, like puzzles, I regard, partly, as prompters of self-centred insularity, so I don’t tend to dwell on either too much. A reaction, maybe, to being a writer, pulling every experience through a quizzical mind: equilibrium is essential, some time in which to mend the net.
Sit with coffee. Rain falls in such quantity it could make an island of us.
captivating!
ReplyDeleteI think you had to go shopping perhaps according the dream, but you took the bike!
ReplyDeleteA bike ride is always more fun than shopping, Jan, in my opinion :-)
ReplyDelete