Monday, 4 February 2013

Dream logic

My dream last night: fleeing, from the police, I'm not entirely sure what it was I did wrong. But we had a lorry, a truck, some sort of big bus and we were fabulous and stars, perhaps drag queens, maybe the only way to escape being found is to dress up and stand in the centre of the performance, flick your hair, and look like something entirely unexpected.

We were fleeing to the city of New York, of course, and all that I remember is sitting at the front, or perhaps hovering over, roads that twisted like spun wool, sprawling in every which direction. For a moment, I was myself and we took the wrong turning, or missed the turning, because we were too hypnotised by the beauty of this landscape and the length of its horizons. And then the police stopped us and I had to clamber into the back and then they opened the back and took me out, but oh, it was wonderful to be caught in the centre of attention, people raised their teacups: cheers.

And then I was driving and the same thing, the same spot, I explained why I was the one to miss the turn off (I'm sorry; I was distracted, look at the beauty of this horizon) and again, the police began to follow, but fuck this, so I pushed that accelerator to the floor and soon we were escaping on a bridge that was opening, we were flying and crossing it, we would get to New York: us, this ragtag bunch, this gaggle of maniacs, these gorgeous ladies, performers, waiting for our stage.

Somehow, where we ended up after the performances was a place filled with snow. We were lying in front of a huge window while the storms raged outside—beautiful blue-sky blizzards where the only snow that gathered was the snow that was landing: if you looked to the sky, the snow poured out while the sun shone. We were curled on the floor, snoozing, camping out from our destiny, which seemed to be that we were safe and would stay here because we were trapped in the blizzards, and if we were trapped, who could ever come and find us?

But when we opened the doors and left the shack, it turned out that the snow only circled us, only gathered in a small copse around, and the horizons here were actually so very green. We lay around in the flowers waiting for the next thing to happen, and I thought that maybe this is how the world ends: quietly, softly, snuggled in blankets. Waiting for the dazzling white stuff to stop falling and then stepping, tentatively, outside. 

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