copyright 2010 C. G. Wagner Sometimes I wish we lived in an age where I could commission a poet to describe what I've seen or experienced. (For instance, what about that one songbird that has claimed the uppermost branch of a tree on my street and cheers me every morning? I can't make out what he is, his colors darkened against the morning East.)
But that would be like hiring a stunt double for my soul.
Anyway, I probably don't want anyone, poet or psychoanalyst, peering into the mind behind the visions and the dreams. A screenwriter might be good, though.
The dreams that I remember, though the imagery evaporates quickly into shadows with my morning songbird, are often intensely action-filled, like "24," and strangely magical. It's as though I'd conjured a perfect mashup, with Russell Crowe's character "Terry" in Proof of Life cast as "Clarence" the angel in It's a Wonderful Life.
And my dreams are often populated by strangers. Who was the baby sister that "Terry" and I were trying to protect from the cartel in my dream last night? I don't have a baby sister. Could it have been Angelea from America's Next Top Model or that pill-popping former Miss USA who was on the Oprah show that repeated last night before I finally went to sleep? And could the villainous head of the cartel, operating from a high-tech brothel/carnival funhouse, have been Mr. Trump?
The random visions and ideas we are exposed to during the day try to organize themselves somehow into a narrative at night. It means nothing, really. So I'll just pass the nighttime popcorn and enjoy the "Wonderful Proof of Life."
love, hosaa
dreaming again
Speaking of mashups, for your entertainment... The Right Sh-Stuff:
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