Dreaming the sun on my back

I was packing the trunk of my parent’s old Malibu with camping gear. It was sunny, and I looked down and saw my shoes on the rough grain of asphalt. The sheen of each individual rock in the asphalt mix made me look up at the sky. It was clear and hot, and at the edge of my vision the cherry tree in the front yard of my parent’s house was in full blossom, lacing the sky pink.

I returned to the trunk. I was trying to fit everything I need into it. It was full of primary colours, vivid camping colours like orange, blue, red and green. No purple. I don’t like purple. I had to keep shuffling all the colours around to make everything fit in an organized fashion.

I could feel my back getting hotter as the sun started to wake up from its morning chill. I looked over to the trunk of the cherry tree, saw the powdery orange lines of its pollen wisk off in the breeze. An ant closed its eyes to avoid it.

Dream sequence 001

Maybe it's because I'm sitting on the cusp of spring, umbrella in hand. But I'm having a hard time feeling the posting vibe — rain, clouds, vitamin D deficiency. I have many excuses and lots of internal guilt lapping the cusp like a declawed kitten. I promised myself I would post at least once a week, and I've failed miserably in keeping this promise over the past few rainy weeks of spring.

So I've decided to repurpose some of the dreams I have been sending the work husband to temporarily shim this lack.

Why have I been sending my work husband dreams? Well, the work environment has narrowed my imagination. It requires me to keep my thoughts simple and literal, which is an interesting challenge indeed, but I'm finding it hard to do this while keeping my ideas at fresh and fantastic. So I decided to flex my imagination with some rogue dreaming —stream of consciousness-style.

My early mornings are filled with fractured dream sequences, moving snapshots of information. The only thread linking these sequences is accumulation — like a piece of discarded sticky tape with the detritus of witnessed events and images, real and contrive, affixed to it in a haphazard way.

A dream fragment remembered:

Angelica Huston proudly sitting on the prow of the boat like she was in Life Aquatic. Close up of her hair. It’s tangled and mossy, filled with objects from my youth (barrettes I used to wear, paperclips, thistles). The view pans down her hair, which extends beyond the surface of the water. And as it pans, the lens (my dream lens) tumbles and falls becoming enmeshed in this fettered web of objects and hair. Now underwater, tangled in seaweed instead of hair. Floor bottom is sandy, and feet scramble to find footing on this soft floor. It turns into grains of wood floorboards. The lens is sleeping on them. In a red sleeping bag. A shiny one with images of moose on its fleecy interior. The lens is sideways, as if it’s sleeping on its side. Two boys dressed as Halloween space men wake the lens up by putting their faces, almost conjoined, close to the lens. Their faces looks sideways.

And that’s all I can remember.

Watching the Thompson River Float By

Got a coffee. Went down to the river. Sat, cross legged.


Watched the geese. Do an odd and amusing calling/burping/mating thing.


Watched Jackson sniff, ever-so-carefully, each blade of grass and then leisurely paddle around in the water.

~From the desk of Indecisive Libran musings.