Thursday, April 5, 2007

Dreaming In Colorful

I'll just say this up front: I'm thinking out loud; not fishing . . .


In my conscious hours I am capable enough of writing a humorous little essay. But in my dreams . . .

I'm not talking about my daydreams, I mean my actual nighttime asleep dreams. In my dreams I can, and do, write anything and everything.

In sleep, I am the author of poetry so full of pathos it would make you question the very life you live. And songs meaningful and true such as they could be sung by the likes of Bono or any one of the angst-ridden young indies.

In dreams, I weave full length novels. My characters are real and the stories are complicated and alive.

And then I wake up and can't remember any of it. I ache to conjure even a single line of my rich slumber verse. But it all drifts back to the depths and I rise up through the layers to surface into waking life.

And I'm left with the capacity to pen the ButtFest trilogy or a chocolate orgasm. But in my dreams . . .

8 comments:

whitenoise said...

Yeah, I've had dreams like that....

I cured cancer, wrote the great, canadian novel and directed a prize-winning movie. It all seemed very easy. Until I woke up. ;-)

Rick said...

The only thing I do in my dream is try to run away from the boogy man yet get no where.

Kristin said...

Cool, whitenoise, I'm glad to know I'm not the only one : ) Although, since dreams only make sense when one is asleep, if I could actually remember my lovely prose, would it all be nonsensical flapadoodle? Probably : )

Interesting, Rick! I had no idea men had those kinds of dreams too (hubby and oldest son don't dream--or don't remember them if they do--so I have no frame of reference.)

Mary said...

Did you ever see the film Amadeus? There's a great scene where the F. Murray Abraham character, Salieri, frustrated that he isn't the musical genius that Mozart is, utters lines that sum up how I feel about my attempts at writing.

Miracle upon miracle, I found some of the lines at IMDB.

**Salieri (speaking to a crucifix): From now on we are enemies, You and I. Because You choose for Your instrument a boastful, lustful, smutty, infantile boy and give me for reward only the ability to recognize the incarnation.**

Salieri can't write the music, but he can recognize the glory of true genius.

Yeah, that about sums up how I feel about my weak attempts at fiction writing.

Rick said...

I thought this was a safe place!

Kristin said...

Rick--not sure what you mean?

Incidentally, every time I type your name, the first attempt *always* comes out 'Rich'. Rich was my highschool sweetheart. Over 20 years ago. But my fingertips remember it like it was yesterday : )

CheekierMeSly said...

One thing I dream is speaking French. Awake, I understand it spoken *to* me, but fumble in the parlay back. In my dreams, I speak it perfectly, conjugating complexly, vocab at the ready recall, and I'm aware enough in my dream to *know* that I can't do this awake and it effing (props to Erin) pisses me off! Which usually wakes me up. And then I'm awake, effing pissed off!

Kristin said...

Cheek--I'm pretty sure this must be a good tiding. Maybe in your future you will live somewhere in France and take to the language like a fish to water : )

Mary, *sigh* Yeah, I empathise. My only serious attempt at anything other than essayish writing was (now that I look back on it) embarrassingly childish. Ah well, we can't all be good at everything . . .