Though the stars hang their tears in the trees

[sovay]

My dreams have better architecture than the cities I live in. All last night's action took place on huge terraces, sunken courtyards, stone skyscrapers, monumental statues, with crowds of students and restaurants and occasional warm and silent fields, away from the skyline that looked like a twelfth-century cathedral with neon. I remember lunch on a balcony where the stonework went up to either side like cliffs, with weeds and flowers springing from cracks between the blocks, but we still had to tip the waiters twenty percent. There was a boy who was sometimes a coyote, but the storyline of the dream dealt unkindly with him—everyone commented on how out of character his actions had been toward the end. There were some books I had borrowed, that were and were not the plot of the dream. Mostly I remember a little orchard of trees and a circular house like a stunted tower, two floors and no way in except to climb up the brickwork and lever up the sash in the nearest, white-ledged window, but inside it was all quiet, closed up, clean as though its occupant had only recently moved out, but something in the sunlit stillness made me think no one else would ever move in, either. I went back through the trees, where the leaves crowded together so closely that the afternoon came through in fingernail bits and lace fragments. I tried to write up a description. I remember one line: "the dark sunlight under the crab apples and the planes." Much later, I realized that the trees and the tower had been Applegarth, and where I had broken in Merlin lay sleeping. But he was in another layer of time, and I could not reach him; or perhaps he had been the man who sent me off to steal nothing except a view of an empty room, a bare floor, shelves with no books on them.

This week sort of disappeared into itself. On Monday, I had lunch with dgr8bob, who introduced me to The Extra Glenns and Dale Bailey's "In Green's Dominion," and now I have two new bookstores to visit in Waltham. Tuesday, I walked through the snowdrifts of the bike path into Lexington Center, for the library, and returned with Angela Carter, Paul West, John Crowley, and blisters on both my feet. Wednesday, there was a wake; no one in my family, but it was still not good. Thursday, I visited a friend in Hartford and New London, and listened to the radio for the first time in months. (And very late that night, it snowed again. Thank God for winter.) And yesterday has already been memorialized, but I had to think about most of the other days of the week. I want my brain back. It's off dreaming Arthuriana and I need it to read Mimnermos.

Comments

[nineweaving.livejournal.com]

I love your dreams.

Nine

[liveavatar.livejournal.com]

As a rule, in my dreams I tend not to notice the architecture -- in fact, a lot of my dreams take place indoors, walking along hallways or a series of rooms with nondescript walls.

When I dream of people I know, though, especially the dead ones, it's very different. The setting might be outdoors in the bright sunlight, or in a spacious manor house. For two dead friends whom I "visited" in dreams, I met one coming out of a crowded party in a redwood-paneled room. With the other, I looked up to find myself surrounded by giant machines in an open courtyard, half steampunk and half Things to Come (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0028358/).

[sovay]

I love your dreams.

Thank you. I still don't feel I can take any credit for them: they happen when I'm not looking.

[sovay]

With the other, I looked up to find myself surrounded by giant machines in an open courtyard, half steampunk and half Things to Come.

That's wonderful.

[shewhomust.livejournal.com]

That's wonderful.

[setsuled.livejournal.com]

I walked through the snowdrifts of the bike path into Lexington Center, for the library, and returned with Angela Carter, Paul West, John Crowley, and blisters on both my feet.

I need to walk more. It's been a long time since I had such blisters, back when I'd go for three to nine hour walks.

Very cool dream, though. You're definitely lucky you have no access to Oblivion.

[sovay]

That's wonderful.

I'm wondering now if I can turn some of the images into a poem.

[sovay]

It's been a long time since I had such blisters, back when I'd go for three to nine hour walks.

I could frankly have done without the blisters. Usually it takes me forty-five minutes to walk into Lexington Center; with all the snow, it was more like an hour and a half, and I do not in fact have good walking boots. But the snow-laden scenery was nice.

You're definitely lucky you have no access to Oblivion.

The last thing I need in my life is another time sink . . .

[watermelonpoet.livejournal.com]

I have about three recurring places for my dreams; one being a shopping mall that is far too large for it's consumer base and has entire wings just closed down and inhabited by criminals and the mind flayer thingies that Gary Gygax stole from Michael Morcock, one is a combination of my high school with the Dongguan Li Gong Shui Yuan; one is Lower Beech Pond, Bolton Lake, Hammonasset and the Planet of the Apes run together, and the last is the Eye House which is equal parts old colonial new england, 19th century kitsch and heavy metal video. Thus, the long way around of saying that I have severe setting envy, and that I really find interesting where people end up in dreams almost as much as who they find and what they are doing.

[watermelonpoet.livejournal.com]

Definitely, you should.

[ap-aelfwine.livejournal.com]

Heavens, that's brilliant.

[yukihada.livejournal.com]

I remember there was a rather strange scifi flick that I did not finish watching called Strange Days. I do remember that people could jack other people's memories into their brain.

If so, I would steal your dreams and become a dependent addict. It is a good thing that you are a writer that can share some semblance of your imaginative inner life with others.

MMmm Angela Carter and John Crowley...sounds like a good trip to the library.

[clarionj.livejournal.com]

Can I come visit your dream tomorrow? Maybe I'll visit it in a story. Lovely.

[sovay]

Maybe I'll visit it in a story.

Go for it.

[sovay]

It is a good thing that you are a writer that can share some semblance of your imaginative inner life with others.

Heh. Thank you. I like the idea of exporting dreams.

MMmm Angela Carter and John Crowley...sounds like a good trip to the library.

I got Crowley's Lord Byron's Novel: The Evening Land (and when I saw it while scanning for something else, picked up Paul West's Lord Byron's Doctor, since I was already reading fictional Byrons) and Carter's Burning Your Boats: The Collected Short Stories and The Passion of New Eve, since that and the collection American Ghosts and Old World Wonders are the only books of hers I don't own. So far, so good.

[sovay]

Heavens, that's brilliant.

It's my subconscious. I put in Mary Stewart, I get this out. I have no idea how it works.

[sovay]

and the last is the Eye House which is equal parts old colonial new england, 19th century kitsch and heavy metal video.

That sounds awesome. Please tell me you write stories set there.

[watermelonpoet.livejournal.com]

One false start and one segment of my old serial, but another couple of dreams have sort of re-awakened my desire to revisit.