I have found that the more one records one’s dreams by writing or typing them down at the moment of waking, the better one remembers them, and the more frequently one dreams, as if this habit of capture fertilizes the sleep-ground and tempts forth greater weirdnesses. Of the dreams I’ve had recently here are a few:
One of the old men who lives across the bay has dropped the sheets of a libretto into my arms. I must learn to sing, stage this musical, and do so to broad acclaim, and if I do, he will collect me at the curtain call and bear me off with him. The stage looks east so the shock of sunset behind the stage will dazzle the audience. The curtain is about to rise.
I am climbing up the heath. There is light on the top of the hill, and only the top of the hill. A herd of sheep crest the bluff, stampeding, delirious. They leap a gap and smash into the facing hill. One by one they puff into smoke and vanish.
We are assembling. It’s over and we’re going home. The valley is filling up and the wind has started. You’re here, unaccountably, and my heart is melting. You’re leaving, leading others. I’m to wait. The wind is getting stronger. It’s getting darker.
I had been told that what I was looking for was in the crack in the cliff and so I went in after it. The light is gone and instead there are glowing veins that flicker on the walls. If I reach it I will find the exit. I continue into the cliff. It is as large as a cathedral. How wonderful, here you are, clean as St. Bartholomew. I know I can’t be lost anymore, and I know I shouldn’t follow you. You lead me deeper in.
I’ve been drugged. I’m walking with you. You’ve generated a copy of yourself to walk with me. Another, botched copy runs ahead us through the trees. You tell me various things. I keep falling asleep, and when I wake up you laugh at me for drooling. I can’t tell if I’m speaking to you or the copy. I think I was called because you knew I was going to say to you what I am saying now, and you wanted to hear it from me. Then, you say you were told that I was at the threshold, and I need three things to succeed. Who told you, and how did you know?
We come to the tree at the center of the world. It is where all the dead ones of us go. It is being moved, hoisted out of the ground with a crane, straight upward. She is bringing back handfuls of black circles, tokens, each one is a dead one, and when she touches them to the tree they stick and become leaves. I try to put a disc on the tree and it sticks and she is furious. All the meaningful space is money only.