weird combination

In all this time I haven't posted, of course I've had a lot of dreams. Last night's were particularly impressive, though. First, I had a terrible dream about my husband getting shot in the head. We were somewhere with a group of very young people (I don't know if we were as young in the dream, or just out of place). We were hanging around in a semi-derelict house, and one of the guys had a gun. He started messing around with it, shooting out the door at something outside. In theory it wasn't supposed to be dangerous because he was just shooting at a target, but somehow he accidentally shot my husband in the back of the head.

I don't need to go on about how awful that was, because it's self-evident. He was still alive, though, so the awfulness just escalated. The kids freaked out and didn't want to take responsibility (didn't even want to call 911). Of course I immediately started to try to stanch the blood (of which there was surprisingly little) and call 911. I failed at first at calling because I kept getting distracted with my first-aid attempts. Then, every time I tried to dial I couldn't get it right. I accidentally entered the wrong sequence of numbers, an extra number appeared at the end, I accidentally erased all the numbers, I pushed the wrong button, I accidentally hung up on the dispatcher, etc. etc. I couldn't find my own phone, which had fallen down somewhere, and kept trying on a variety of phones that were lying around, none of which I could figure out how to use (usually it was the crucial "call" button that I couldn't locate). Finally I decided to look for help on foot, while simultaneously trying to prevent the kids from burying my still-alive husband to hide the evidence of their accident. I eventually ran into some people outside who seemed helpful and competent. I think at that point I must have woken up and realized that he hadn't actually been shot, because I don't remember how it ended.

The other part was considerably less harrowing. I was composing poetry, which is something that I think I've dreamed occasionally before*. Usually when that happens I can't remember any of it in the morning, but this time I remembered part of it. It was a medium-sized poem, so at least half of it is probably gone for good. The missing part was along the same lines. I think it was inspired in part by some recent thinking about my personality and priorities and how to deal with people with conflicting personalities and priorities; and in part by a book I've been reading about slowness. Anyway, this is all I remember:

Manifesto

We reserve the right to dawdle, to hem and haw, to hedge.

We write poetry in our dreams, and knowing that it was graven once in the gray folds of our unconscious is enough.

We are not waiting for happiness.

We know it when we see it.

I found the dream really interesting and amusing, because I remember the thought process I went through choosing the wording there, including a debate about whether the word "graven" was too stilted (I'm still very much on the fence about that). I think the lines that came more easily were the ones I forgot.

*In real life, I haven't dabbled in poetry since late adolescence, when I think one is contractually obligated to do so.

doggy diarrhea and edward gorey

** Warning: this dream contains graphic excrement and may not be appropriate for all readers. **

This was a variation on a theme I've dreamed before. I was living with my parents, sister, and grandmother (I don't remember any spouses for my sister and me, but it's possible they were there too). Somehow I had gotten myself into a position where I was doing 99% of the housework without realizing it--cooking, meal cleanup, laundry, cleaning, everything. All of the family members were sitting around the living room reading* and I was wandering around trying figure out what to do next and wishing I had time to do some project for myself, or my own reading. The dog was laying on the couch, and I realized that something wasn't quite right with her backside. On closer inspection, I saw that she was smeared with the remains of diarrhea. At first I thought none of it had gotten on the couch, and I was panicking about how to try to get her off the couch without dirtying it. I started freaking out and yelling incoherently about dog doo and having to move her, and that they needed to help me, but everyone just glanced up vaguely and went right back to their reading. Then I saw that there was a big plop of excrement that had landed in between the two couch sections, and that really set me off. I started yelling and hyperventilating, which got the dog all riled up so that she spread little bits of yellowish pea-soup-resembling doo all over everything.

Of course that got me even more agitated, and I yelled and yelled and yelled about how I was doing ALL the work for everyone, even washing their dirty laundry, and did they really think that was fair, and how had this happened, and why wouldn't anyone help me with anything, and how could they live with themselves, and why didn't they notice that dog excrement, and why did they think it was okay that *I* was going to have to be the one to clean up all the little bits smeared all around.

They just looked at me with mild surprise and concern, made a few lame excuses for not helping, and a couple of them just left the room to get away from my yelling, implying that the problem was that I was unhinged.

Then my alarm went off, and in my hazy, feeble attempts to stop hyperventilating and wake up, my brain abruptly started making up Edward Gorey-esque doggerel: "J is for Jacob, who exhibited pluck; I is for Ivan, who ran out of luck."



*My family's default setting in real life.

walt whitman

My subconscious made up a poem the other night that was ostensibly by Walt Whitman. It was about seasons, with a stanza for each month (although I think I only read up to March or so before I got interrupted by something I can't remember). This dream poem thing has happened before, but I can never remember them in the morning, so I guess I'll never know if my subconscious is a good poet or not.