i dreamt a dream...
Apr. 9th, 2005 03:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pipistrellafelixHave been reading Dante today; Inferno is wonderful. The scholarly notes are exceedingly helpful I have to admit, but my aesthetic side is wanting a copy of the poem bound in old covers and smelling of dust and glue. I'm such a book-romantic. It's horrible. (Am very unrepentant, though. Hee.)
I have been doing homework, really; but I did spend a lot of my time finishing up the first three Eyre Affair books, which are some of the most incredibly inventive books I have ever read. I really want to visit the Jurisfiction HQ and the Library and even the Well of Lost Plots (though with a guide, please, and preferably not pregnant; I kept wondering what on earth all that action was doing to the baby, although I suppose she's only a month along or so). And I hope that I write things, someday, as insanely creatively workable as all that.
And I've been dreaming. Oh, have I ever.
I want to write about a dream I had last night. No. Two nights ago, now. But it's stuck with me, the muted colours still strong, if a little furry around the edges; and the feeling of other people still around me tingling the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck.
I dreamt of a large room, and dancing. It was a ballroom set in a barn, or underground; (the stairs should have been here--long, winding staircase of old marble and shaped vine-metal, dusty and covered with leaves as if the ceiling had had its own autumns for a hundred years) paneled wood walls, but old and dusty, things hanging from them like a store-room. Warm, dim yellow lights were hung from on high, shedding a golden wash over the whole scene (like a layer of dark yellow at 50 opacity); and smaller lights, globes that would fit easily in my hand, were stung across the walls and dipping low over the dancers. The floor was wood, dusted with the brown saw-dust dirt that falls out and covers everything in barns (For all that, there was some kind of quiet dignity about the place; we may not have been dressed in silver and jewels but we curtsied and bowed like an real noble family).
And it isn't me, remember--or it isn't the me I am when I am awake. This is dream-me, who is a million different people at once and watching it all at the same time.
I was dancing with a boy named Peter (or Patrick? The name isn't so important but I feel I should remember it; it's one of those two), a slightly awkward, quiet dance in a corner, arms over heads and fingers twisting in each other's--a move we couldn't quite figure out, not yet, but gettting close. Spins and twirls and the strong catch of fingers at the end to pull me back in; and a moment--aha!--and a shared smile of quiet triumph. We got that one right, didn't we.
And then moving toward the center of the floor, brushing past other people--dressed, like we were, in plain clothes, brown or black trousers that had seen work on the farm, white shirts soft with age and use, laced up dresses or suspenders, most of us barefoot or in work boots--and then we're standing together in a line, waiting for music to begin. My arms are around his neck, his settled about my waist, holding each other close (I can still remember what it feels like, so incredibly solid for a dream, a body warm with dancing, my face resting in the hollow of another person's throat--). There is a strange feeling in the air--tense, expectant, but happy, waiting for something of remarkable fun to begin--a contest?
(If there had been conversation, it might have gone like this...Nervous? (me, looking up as much as I can with us so close) --No, not really (him, with a faint smile I can feel more than see). Yes, you are (me, returning the smile, because I'm teasing, because we're both a little nervous, but not very much)...)
The second half of the dream is someplace different (although I am the same dream-me; has the time changed, the place, or is this near the dance floor? I can't quite tell). I'm in a room--a bedroom, or it will be. I'm moving in, I think; things are still in boxes or set randomly on the floor without a place of their own yet. There is someone else in the room with me--not Peter, someone older. My father, or possibly stepfather; whichever one, there is an awkward sense of the unknown for each of us--we don't quite know what to say or how to act. Where is my bed? I ask, and he points to the couch in the corner. --It's a futon, he says. Need help folding it out? No, I say, thanks, and he leaves, and I'm on my own to look around. It's a fairly large room; more furniture in there than I will probably ever need. There are dressers against the fair wall, polished and clean but old, and giving off the same feeling as the ballroom (which leads me to think we are in the same place, really; perhaps I live above the dance room? ). The walls themselves are dark wood; there are bookshelves (of course--could I dream a room without them?) lining the wall to my right, and another shelf or dresser directly to my right, just to the side of my bed, which I've unfolded and pulled away from the wall. Where my bed was is now my altar, though still messy and waiting for organization and love. I'm sitting on my bed, my back against the wall. I draw my bare feet (I think they're still dirty from last night's dancing) under my skirt and wrap my arms about my knees, and wish Peter would come.
He may have come--this last part is fuzzy. My dream-self may have been dreaming; at any rate it was night, and the moon was spilling in through the window over the moving-in mess (obviously my dream self is no more organized than I am) and Peter is there in the room, and he smiles, and we settle into each other's arms, against the wall, and talk...but I can't remember what we said.
And then I wake up, with that strange undefinable sense of missing something important. And I miss dancing in that ballroom with someone I love, very much.
I have been doing homework, really; but I did spend a lot of my time finishing up the first three Eyre Affair books, which are some of the most incredibly inventive books I have ever read. I really want to visit the Jurisfiction HQ and the Library and even the Well of Lost Plots (though with a guide, please, and preferably not pregnant; I kept wondering what on earth all that action was doing to the baby, although I suppose she's only a month along or so). And I hope that I write things, someday, as insanely creatively workable as all that.
And I've been dreaming. Oh, have I ever.
I want to write about a dream I had last night. No. Two nights ago, now. But it's stuck with me, the muted colours still strong, if a little furry around the edges; and the feeling of other people still around me tingling the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck.
I dreamt of a large room, and dancing. It was a ballroom set in a barn, or underground; (the stairs should have been here--long, winding staircase of old marble and shaped vine-metal, dusty and covered with leaves as if the ceiling had had its own autumns for a hundred years) paneled wood walls, but old and dusty, things hanging from them like a store-room. Warm, dim yellow lights were hung from on high, shedding a golden wash over the whole scene (like a layer of dark yellow at 50 opacity); and smaller lights, globes that would fit easily in my hand, were stung across the walls and dipping low over the dancers. The floor was wood, dusted with the brown saw-dust dirt that falls out and covers everything in barns (For all that, there was some kind of quiet dignity about the place; we may not have been dressed in silver and jewels but we curtsied and bowed like an real noble family).
And it isn't me, remember--or it isn't the me I am when I am awake. This is dream-me, who is a million different people at once and watching it all at the same time.
I was dancing with a boy named Peter (or Patrick? The name isn't so important but I feel I should remember it; it's one of those two), a slightly awkward, quiet dance in a corner, arms over heads and fingers twisting in each other's--a move we couldn't quite figure out, not yet, but gettting close. Spins and twirls and the strong catch of fingers at the end to pull me back in; and a moment--aha!--and a shared smile of quiet triumph. We got that one right, didn't we.
And then moving toward the center of the floor, brushing past other people--dressed, like we were, in plain clothes, brown or black trousers that had seen work on the farm, white shirts soft with age and use, laced up dresses or suspenders, most of us barefoot or in work boots--and then we're standing together in a line, waiting for music to begin. My arms are around his neck, his settled about my waist, holding each other close (I can still remember what it feels like, so incredibly solid for a dream, a body warm with dancing, my face resting in the hollow of another person's throat--). There is a strange feeling in the air--tense, expectant, but happy, waiting for something of remarkable fun to begin--a contest?
(If there had been conversation, it might have gone like this...Nervous? (me, looking up as much as I can with us so close) --No, not really (him, with a faint smile I can feel more than see). Yes, you are (me, returning the smile, because I'm teasing, because we're both a little nervous, but not very much)...)
The second half of the dream is someplace different (although I am the same dream-me; has the time changed, the place, or is this near the dance floor? I can't quite tell). I'm in a room--a bedroom, or it will be. I'm moving in, I think; things are still in boxes or set randomly on the floor without a place of their own yet. There is someone else in the room with me--not Peter, someone older. My father, or possibly stepfather; whichever one, there is an awkward sense of the unknown for each of us--we don't quite know what to say or how to act. Where is my bed? I ask, and he points to the couch in the corner. --It's a futon, he says. Need help folding it out? No, I say, thanks, and he leaves, and I'm on my own to look around. It's a fairly large room; more furniture in there than I will probably ever need. There are dressers against the fair wall, polished and clean but old, and giving off the same feeling as the ballroom (which leads me to think we are in the same place, really; perhaps I live above the dance room? ). The walls themselves are dark wood; there are bookshelves (of course--could I dream a room without them?) lining the wall to my right, and another shelf or dresser directly to my right, just to the side of my bed, which I've unfolded and pulled away from the wall. Where my bed was is now my altar, though still messy and waiting for organization and love. I'm sitting on my bed, my back against the wall. I draw my bare feet (I think they're still dirty from last night's dancing) under my skirt and wrap my arms about my knees, and wish Peter would come.
He may have come--this last part is fuzzy. My dream-self may have been dreaming; at any rate it was night, and the moon was spilling in through the window over the moving-in mess (obviously my dream self is no more organized than I am) and Peter is there in the room, and he smiles, and we settle into each other's arms, against the wall, and talk...but I can't remember what we said.
And then I wake up, with that strange undefinable sense of missing something important. And I miss dancing in that ballroom with someone I love, very much.
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no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 01:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 05:50 am (UTC)(Write stuff down. See note to Phil, below. It really does help.)
no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 05:49 am (UTC)(And a hint about remembering dreams--write down whatever you do remember. Even if it's as small as the image of a tree, whatever--write it down. Every day, write down whatever you remember from the night before. You'll actually start remembering more.)
no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 04:49 pm (UTC)Toodlepip.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 06:31 pm (UTC)Pippletood.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 10:28 pm (UTC)Oodletip.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 05:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 06:30 pm (UTC)....is what? :D
(i thought about that quote, but it didn't make any sense...)
no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 10:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 12:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 12:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 01:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 05:21 am (UTC)Naw...too much, I think. Simplicity is the way to go.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 12:35 pm (UTC)which makes me think of Lewis Carroll (the Hunting of the *Snerk*)
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Date: 2005-04-11 07:55 pm (UTC)...my dad still wants to do Snark in the Park. Hmmm. *puts on list of theatrical possibilities*
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Date: 2005-04-10 06:03 pm (UTC)I should post more dreams, and you should too cuz they are wonderful.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-10 06:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 08:20 pm (UTC)A barn/ball room, now that a lovely and interesting image! Very life-like description.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 10:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 11:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-13 06:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-13 03:33 pm (UTC)