Through someone else’s blog award list I recently discovered The Dream Journal Today – a remarkable blog straightforwardly recounting dreams. It has stimulated me to pay more attention to what my brain is doing in its “off-hours.” The post regarding my longing for knowledge of my father is such a result, as is the following post, gathered through the past night. I have the hunch my psychophysiology works over emotion when I’m out…something my waking mind deters. Whatever the case, I have found the ritual to be as intriguing as working with photo-prompts to dislodge other-conscious concerns, and recommend it to writers everywhere as a kind of exercise in translation.
Thrown on my back as from a jungle gym – panicked in the way of breath-smashed bodies. Helpless then, disempowered.
Lying next to you in our warm nest of bed, nose and right eye microscopically near the flesh of your chest – the sharp distinction of its tattoo’s inky night and the blemishless cream covering your major pectorals.
I see it falling, the exploding crush of a thick plate of glass the size of a small wall and maybe four inches thick – variegated and stained – slicing and dicing my face with the stories you don’t share.
The night is full of phrases. Intimacies shredded by the unspoken, the secrets. A literal compaction of my face in bloodied fragments – the world a shattered windshield.
Sleeping fitfully you deliver direct language through the dark. “This is wrong and this is wrong and this is wrong…with you.” I don’t remember details, only that I’m broken like a vase of porcelain on the floor of an empty manor.
The decompression and drainage, the fracturing damage of all you hold apart. Discommunication. What is withheld. The feeling of what happens when I supply the captions to your silence.
“What is fiction after all, if not a kind of purposeful dreaming?”