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And every evening at midnight he would come to my window and sing
Of the two windows in my room, I like best the view from the one at the head of my bed: a pine tree as tall as the house with tiny new cones greening at the tips of its branches and a white-flowering tree beyond. If I peer down at an angle, I can see the lilac bush just on the other side of the neighbor's fence. Outside the other is the second-floor deck at the back of the house next door. It's directly on a level with my bedroom; so far I haven't seen anything out there except a cooler and some plastic chairs, but I imagine in summer I may have to start drawing the blinds. Last night I dreamed there was an airship there instead, tethered in a web of ropes and cables and thumping extremely loud bass music. I pushed the window open (as in waking life, the sash sticks badly) and shouted out whether they could turn it down. It was a little after dawn, the deepwater surfacing light that I hate trying to sleep in. The man at the rail of the airship was wearing a top hat and vest, of the style that means either steampunk or Somerville casual, but he also went back into the wheelhouse and the music dropped to a level I could sleep through with earplugs in. After I woke up in the afternoon, which was kindly overcast so that the sun streaming in through the blinds didn't pry me awake at nine o'clock anyway, he leaned on his rail and I sat in my window (it's not a casement or a window seat, it just doesn't have a screen, either) and we talked about movies. He was recommending something from the New Wave called Criteria, of which I have a few seconds' memory because it was a dream: a small collection of figures walking between hedgerows, brightly colored in silent, Polaroid-grainy frame-skips, a red-jacketed child with its hand in the hand of a much taller figure I didn't want to identify as adult, because that might imply it was human. I don't remember what I was telling him to watch, except I think it also didn't exist. He was roundish, fair-bearded, not anyone I knew from waking. He rolled up the sleeves of his striped shirt and he wasn't wearing any watches.
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Definitely beat the fraternities on my street in New Haven.
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Et tu, Somerville? By the way, have you noticed how many of those top hat wearers have no idea how to choose the correct size of hat?
He sounds an agreeable fellow. I mean, it would have been nicer if he had turned the music off but still.
1. Could he actually be your psychopomp, responsible for programming your dreams?
2. It would neat if he turned up again as a recurring character. There are such possibilities in visiting with a dream dirigible pilot who likes film.
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The echt Somerville topper is very different from the Cantabridgian one, as worn by the gaunt revenant who haunted Harvard Square in his Summer-of-Love poncho, as if he'd lost the Incredible String Band somewhere.
Nine
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I'm not sure he's my psychopomp. I like airships as much as the next person who wasn't on the Hindenburg, but I think mine would have to do more with sailing. He could very definitely be somebody's, though.
The echt Somerville topper is very different from the Cantabridgian one, as worn by the gaunt revenant who haunted Harvard Square in his Summer-of-Love poncho, as if he'd lost the Incredible String Band somewhere.
A study of the species must be made.
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I'm afraid I hadn't, but I may also skew the demographic by knowing a number of people who care about hats.
Could he actually be your psychopomp, responsible for programming your dreams?
I hadn't thought of it, but now I'm sort of associating him with the Dreamfinder from the original EPCOT Journey into Imagination. Huh.
(Goggles on a top hat! In 1983! Talk about anticipating trends.)
It would neat if he turned up again as a recurring character. There are such possibilities in visiting with a dream dirigible pilot who likes film.
I wish I could take out of dreams most of the art I encounter in them. Occasionally I've been able to salvage writing, but the movies and musicals are pretty much a lost cause.
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Interesting dream.
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I have still never seen that! My only Godard remains Vivre sa vie (1962) and Le mépris (1963), one of which I loved as soon as I saw it, the other of which I hated and then spent hours talking about with
Interesting dream.
My brain just does this.
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If you see it, I hope you love it!
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Chances are good! I'll write about it if I do.
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Usually I have recurring nightmares. I would totally welcome a recurring opportunity to chat about film.
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Seriously: I was just reading last month that both Visconti and Joseph Losey wanted to film À la recherche du temps perdu!
(I got nothing on the red jacket, but the ambiguously human is normal me.)
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I only slept about three hours that night, but I guess my brain decided to make them count.