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Dreams.
Who are the people who populate my dreams?
The most of them, they're generic assemblages, put together out of the stashes of noses and hair that my brain has filed away, clothed in blurs of colour of some sort, moved around the edges of my perception and rarely quite registering. Though there was the one, leaning over the table in the room to the side of the library at RM where the It's Ac team practiced, with the fluffy mass of curly blonde hair with brown centres to the coils, the sharply pointed nose, the features made up to that point of just slight excess, the point where I notice the rouge and eyeshadow. I wonder who she was.
Then there are the people who are people I know. And I wonder what they represent, what concepts they are. It wasn't as complicated as dreams of Alick, which are always just . . . confounding . . . but still.
Mrs. Pitt was there, in her irascible selfness, but far more a manifestation of simple interference with life than as a real being. I know she retired a year or so after I graduated for medical reasons, but my subconscious doesn't care and leaves her in the library -- the library which was, like many places in dreams, resolutely itself, but with fuzzy borders extending further away to the left than is actually in memory.
And someone else was there, too, and warm and affectionate, which was never a part of our interactions, and apologetic for treating me badly (leaving obnoxious messages on the voicemail), which he never did.
I wonder who it was that borrowed his face, and what they meant to say.
The most of them, they're generic assemblages, put together out of the stashes of noses and hair that my brain has filed away, clothed in blurs of colour of some sort, moved around the edges of my perception and rarely quite registering. Though there was the one, leaning over the table in the room to the side of the library at RM where the It's Ac team practiced, with the fluffy mass of curly blonde hair with brown centres to the coils, the sharply pointed nose, the features made up to that point of just slight excess, the point where I notice the rouge and eyeshadow. I wonder who she was.
Then there are the people who are people I know. And I wonder what they represent, what concepts they are. It wasn't as complicated as dreams of Alick, which are always just . . . confounding . . . but still.
Mrs. Pitt was there, in her irascible selfness, but far more a manifestation of simple interference with life than as a real being. I know she retired a year or so after I graduated for medical reasons, but my subconscious doesn't care and leaves her in the library -- the library which was, like many places in dreams, resolutely itself, but with fuzzy borders extending further away to the left than is actually in memory.
And someone else was there, too, and warm and affectionate, which was never a part of our interactions, and apologetic for treating me badly (leaving obnoxious messages on the voicemail), which he never did.
I wonder who it was that borrowed his face, and what they meant to say.
no subject
Then there's that fusion of high school in IN, college in OH, grad school in IL, and grad school here (Boston). And it's always a convenient commute away, but I seem to always miss the first week of classes and have to drop everything or flunk out... I haven't been a grad student for nearly 10 years, so why do I still dream about this crap?!