Friday, December 11, 2009


Lately, I've been wondering why I forget my dreams even before waking up. And wondering what my dreams would tell me if I remembered them. 

Last night, I obliged myself.  There must have been a few grains of will involved; I didn't think I could pull off remembering a dream just because I wanted to.  Do dreams operate by a different sense of what's attractive than surface life?  It wasn't until I woke up in the morning that I thought, That was one ugly pup.  The mother dog was...kind of a dog as well.  But in the dream I didn't give it a second thought, nor did I think, gee, puppies don't usually nurse by sucking on a bitch's tail.

It was dream normal.

The scariest dream I ever had was when I was very young.  There was nothing actually frightening in it, a bit like the suppressed polish of our Quaker household.  After all, there was nothing frightening about my parents.  I dreamed of something pretty, and I woke up terrified.

There was pastoral color in the dream: It was silent:  An earthen path through a flower garden, the path covered with boards to walk on, like you sometimes see at the beach. At the end of the path, a summer gazebo waited.  I woke up and hid behind the laundry bag in the bathroom between my brother's room and my room.  Bothering my parents wasn't an option.

--That silence rose from fear of a silent dream.  Silence can be anything: a place for worship to expand; white space, in which the words of a poem resonate after they've been read; even a passive weapon--silence that fuels injustice by accepting the status quo.

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