Did You Sleep Well?

I arrived as if by chance at the opera house and began to negotiate with the box about admission fees, and then I decided to make a call to my friend who had insisted that fees would be waived on this special day, but couldn’t remember the number. I scrolled my contacts list but instead of names, there were various representations of water in its different states such as fog, river rapids, sea floor, a curtain-like waterfall over the mouth of a cave from inside the cave, rain, a vast and puddled Italian piazza after a storm reflecting distant clouds of an indeterminate weather, and so on. At this point I should have known I was dreaming but I’m an idiot, right?

Then I came upon a man painting the ceiling of the opera house lobby with an absurdly long pole attached to his little roller. Every time I look up, the ceiling looks higher and further away. The painter has opera glasses so he can see if he’s missed a spot way up there. It occurs to me that the pole is so long there’s no way he could bring it down to reload it. I mean the room isn’t wide enough. But I shrug it off, this sense of a post-normality that seems to be enveloping me at the moment. I swear, I will fall for anything in a dream.

But then I woke up a little bit, just enough to feel like I could decide what happens next and I find I am writing about what has happened so far and begin to come up with the descriptions I have already put down here except it is all still in the dream. And then I wake up the rest of the way and consciousness grips me like a frightened child. Oh, I think to myself, it was just a dream, like this is completely normal, which it unfortunately is. Later, I actually write down what you see here, but I’m still none the wiser. How can consciousness be such a shaky proposition?

I kind of see why people believe in a creator. It seems like someone is writing this material. Except they seem more extravagant than omnipotent. You know what I mean? So how about you. Did you sleep well? As Steven Wright once answered, “no, I made a few mistakes.”


Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Dream Shanty

We had shrimp for dinner, and later that night they came back to me, and they made up my dreams for me. The shrimp, that is, their bodies buried in the shallow grave of an appetite sated. Born shrimp, born to be eaten, a waking life of monotony, but their dreams are quite elaborate. You eat something, maybe something eats you, but dreamlife swings wide and hard, twirling like a centrifuge. The deep stuff pulled out of its shell.

The years were piled behind me like great mounds of bald tires in a vast rural tract bounded by chain link fencing, ablaze with morning glories. Something about the bent, linked wires attracts the vines. It was the shrimp dreaming, and myself, eating their dreams. The vines look a tangle, a thicket made of dreams, like intestines, dilated to accommodate the diaspora of displaced thoughts. They form vast tent cities, shanties of curiosity in the bardo of the seeking night. Dreams weighted down by heavy meals. Stomachs themselves, dreaming.

Bee-like, the shrimp dream of flowers. A trumpet shaped flower may one day dream me up. They have yet to name that color, that something-blue, rattling the ocular nerve. It is uncertainty. You call an endless thing infinite because you run out of time. You have to call it something. You are given your name. My bent, linked mind attracts these vines. In dreamland the dreams dream you.

In the morning we rise and dream up another day. The shrimpers return to the docks engulfed by clouds of frantic gulls. The birds take repast in open water. On the boat, cormorants, pelicans line up aft, on the railings, like a depression era breadline. They wait, dreaming of shrimp, then dive after the spoils as the fishermen sort the catch. They are in for some crazy dreams. I was caught out in a daydream and, snapping out of it, I got a whiff of salt. The gulf is dreaming and I am in that dream. At dock, the boats sway and the sun makes its way. The net booms point skyward, but no one seems to see this as a sign.

Do you ever crave mountains? And when you think of mountains do you think of hulking peaks of buttery mashed potatoes with scoop-dented crests, filled with steamy hot gravy? I face the water. Behind me the land stretches out flat, like water. I’m thinking of vegetables now. Or maybe I’ll fast. Try dreaming my own stuff, for a change.