a rare occasion.
I had a dream, as I slept from 6:30 p.m. to 9:16, that I was meeting a boy that I really admired at the end of the night, but until then I was held into obligations for work. I went to a party in a New York loft and met a gorgeous Mexican man who'd have bought me on the spot and I almost let him, then I remembered. I left the party and met with my boss, who wanted me to meet a friend of his. I changed from my skirt into pants while standing in a freeway in Boston. I took out my earrings and painted my lips on an old dirt road in Rena Lara. He picked me up and smiled about it, his eyes bright and his hair in tight, rich brown curls. We kissed but I remembered, and I had him take me home.
I got home and waited for the boy I'd promised the night to, but he'd left a note on my door while I was gone, saying how sorry he was for letting me down but he'd be in Rome for the evening. I crumpled the paper and lit it with my cigarette lighter, dropped it onto the porch, and let it burn the house down while I sat, rocking in time with the crackling of the antique wood, and let the flames wrap themselves around me. It was then that I forgot.
Labels: dreams
3 Comments:
I really like fires in literature. Anytime someone writes about fire, I'm immediately drawn in. I usually don't read peoples' entries about their dreams, but I made an exception in your case because I know how well you write. I wasn't disappointed. From your writing, it seems profound things are more abundant in your life than in most other lives. I find myself getting jealous of the moments you write about.
See, here's the catch--things aren't any more profound for me than they are anyone else. Being a writer is making fiction from fact and elaborating on things that are almost true, making them seem a whole lot more relevant than they already are. That's always been my writing style--hence the "almost memories" tag. Those entries are things that happened, but maybe not quite as poetically as I've implied.
The way the dream turned into a story...just read like good fiction. Like a story that was so rich it felt like a dream, or like the line between stories we read and dreams we have is too thin.
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