Bits and Pieces

I have to start writing my dreams down again. I need to remember these things, I know it. Sometimes I don't write them because they are a bit shocking even to myself. But I should still write. Shouldn't I?

Here are a few things I remember:

From the summer, silk sheets and a round blue bed. Negotiations. Superficial beauty and all the things that surround that. What is it that is wanted? Not all that glitters. It is funny how in my dreams and in real life, I end up wanting the same things.

In mid-fall, I found myself writing a novel in my dream. In order to write this novel I had to spend time in a Victorian mansion to find out what it was like. I lived every word of the stories that I wrote, beautiful, historical, romantic. What would life be like after the novel was published?

Last night I dreamt of a large house, perhaps early-mid 20th century, with peaked ceilings of wood and the most beautiful chandeliers, one of which I knocked down with a long metal rod and had to clean it up. It was not my house. AM and RS were still roommates and it was their house. They shared a room that had twin captain beds with navy blue bedspreads. I felt less bad that I had destroyed their chandelier than that I was clumsy.

Everything in my dreams is more sophisticated, more refined, more dark and mysterious, more mahogany, than the life I experience (less orange though, usually.) It is the world of Sherlock Holmes and a thousand mystery novels. It is crystal chandeliers, magnifying glasses, fragrant oils, analog, wood and metal, no plastic, urgent skies, reassuring humidity. It is time to think and to write, no hurrying, conversations of truth and beauty, authenticity, and trust. It is the world I believe in, the one I want to make real. But does reality have time enough for this?