Pigs in a Blanket

Spent all night dressing pigs in little caps, little jackets, little pants....

We Sleep To Go There

In my age, as in my youth, night brings me many a deep remorse. I realize that from the cradle up I have been like the rest of the race - never quite sane in the night.

--Mark Twain



"It seemed to be a necessary ritual that he should prepare himself for sleep by meditating under the solemnity of the night sky ... a mysterious transaction between the infinity of the soul and the infinity of the universe."

--Victor Hugo



"Where to Run? I have thought such a thought
so late at night it seemed I could enter ...
go from one side of the brain to the other ...
I think differently on the far side of midnight ....

The messages come in as I doze off ... they are what pours,
what swallows, touches, freezes, and floods ...
and they are always clear ...
Where? If the universe is expanding,
what is it that is not expanding?
We sleep to go there."

--Conscious Dog
Marvin Big

Ignis Fatuus

Okay. FIrst there were things, small children's things-- poems, or spelling words-- on wide blue-lined paper. The paper became dirty snow, where two young men, dressed as 17th century peasants, caps, blousy shirts, dark, rough pants-- were sleeping. They appeared to have been drugged, or poisoned. I thought they were French or Italian, but from another century. A modern Chinese soldier in a brown army uniform had dropped them off from his vehicle, and now wondered if he should kill them, or let them live. He sometimes let them live. But not this time. He took an ax he carried and neatly and gently (as easy as cutting through butter) sliced through the belly of each man. At first there was no sign of their wounds, but then bright red blood began to gush. The two men sat up, seeming unaware that they were bleeding to death. Then one of them began to sing a nursery song, very softly, in English. Their deaths seemed to me to be very humane and painless. I thought how if it was me, I would rather die outstretched, face upward, so the very last thing to fill my eyes would be the sight of the blue sky, and I would die filled up with blue, and that would be good. Then it all went back to the words on the wide, blue-lined paper, words some little child had written-- was writing-- even as I woke up.

So. Figure that one out, Islanders.... I've heard it said that in dreams, you are every character, as well as every object, etc. I am the dying peasants, the Chinese soldier, the ax, the child, the paper. A poem:


ignis fatuus


in the illustrated
conceptions
that happen each night as
the curtain
behind my eyes rises
fugitive people move
catbirds of life changing
skins under my closed eyelids
under my quiescent hair
on the pillow

skimming inscrutable
geographies of
words like flat stones
across the grey-
green water of mind
that sprays like sea

or resident birds
that babble across an
overflowing of bells

I sleep
in ciphers
that no one explains
mutable, exploding
at the pinions
self-propelling

and vulnerable to light
as vampires



(A question: Do you dream in color? I do!)

Monday, February 26, 2007
"Your Dreams Miss You!"


Remember that Rozerem ad where the diver, the beaver, and Abe Lincoln all tell the sleepless guy that his "dreams miss him." I saw a new ad this morning where the guy goes in to work, and explains his insomnia to his boss. "Tell me about it," she says without sympathy, and she walks past followed by a little blue pony....

This reminded me of a dream I had last night, where I met an unconfident, lost camel on the street. He looked remarkably like Joe Camel, if he'd been painted by El Greco--long and sad, rather like Don Quixote's horse. This camel told me he was trying to find his house, a red house, so I obliged and helped him look for it. At length, after going up and down several streets, I finally found a red house. I pointed it out to him. "Not THAT red house," he said irritably. The ungrateful wretch.

Aren't dreams wonderful?! They keep sleep from being such a total waste of time!

Two By Two

There we were, two of us (I don't know who the other was), being kept prisoners in a large and beautiful house by a really evil guy. There was no food anywhere and we were starving to the point of trying to eat sticks. We were very afraid, and wild to get away. When we finally managed to escape, we discovered our captor had been really busy with his digging machines, steamshovels, earth-movers, and had dug up mountains of earth, acres of mountains and holes. Running, we were thinking that if we separated and each went a diferent direction, at least one of us would get away alive. We knew there was a grave waiting for us in one of those valleys. Then we saw where he had half-buried two yellow volkswagons, their round yellow rooftops like eggs sticking out of the dirt. For some reason, this had great significance, like maybe he was going to put each of us in one and cover us up. And, knowing he'd be coming back soon to check on us, we ran even faster.

Eventually we came to a place where there was a long, long parade of animals dancing two by two, goats and wolves and lions, etc., and finally at the end of the line, long-legged egrets, and storks, and flamingos, all dancing this strange, long-legged dance. There were some people dancing at the end of the parade, making this wierd music with bells and finger-cymbals, spinning in slow circles and hopping on one foot. We decided there was safety in numbers, so we joined them in this bizarre parade, knowing we were heading towards some eventual ark.

HOOK

I had a blackish bump on my right arm between the wrist and the elbow. Therefore, the doctor was going to cut off my arm and get me a prosthesis. I wanted one with a real-looking hand, that worked (more or less) like a real hand, but it would cost sixty thousand dollars, and I couldn't afford that, so I was going to have to get used to having a hook instead. Do you think maybe this was because I watched a "Peter Pan" DVD twice with my grandkids yesterday...?

Secrets

There is a secret code to blogging. Write on your birthday, then subtract every other letter, and the secret will be revealed!

Also, I was writing a legal document in ink, in all capital letters, on a piece of Kleenex. Someone mysterious was instructing me which letters to write. It is not easy to write with ink, on Kleenex.

Disappearing Acts

Night before last I had another stress dream: We were doing a reader's theater version of a play of Tenessee Williams, I think it was supposed to be "Glass Menagerie," but the lines weren't familiar. At least we had a script in front of us, however, it was all written on scraps of loose paper, cloth, etc., and the lines kept appearing and disappearing. The house was full.

Last night Robby G.'s personal information in the About Me part of his Blog said he'd been teaching school on "Puffin Island, Alaska," and in spite of his having been there for so long, it didn't prove puffins existed, as he had never seen one. Which reminded me of this old poem by Florence Page Jacques that kept running through my head and I couldn't go back to sleep....

There once was a Puffin
Just the shape of a muffin
And he lived on an island
In the bright blue sea

And he ate little fishes
That were most delicious
And he had them for supper
And he had them for tea.

...

Then along came the fishes
And they said, "If you wishes
You can have us for playmates
Instead of for tea!"

So they now play together
In all sorts of weather
And the Puffin eats pancakes
Like you and like me.