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Dreams and Travel Plans
Dec. 19th, 2014 08:53 amReally, really, complex and odd narrative Dream…
There was a whole sequence of movies I had made – I was a cinema verite director, French New Wave.
Brad Pitt was in it – the young, dreamy Brad Pitt when he was still playing with personas – Should I be James Dean or Robert Wagner? He was toying with me romantically, and I knew he was toying with me, but he was a Big Celebrity, so it was okay. We were supposed to go to the beach, but then he got a phone call, his children on the phone, and I could tell he was beset with guilt.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We don’t have to do this.”
And he looked so relieved.
Then I was walking through Berkeley – the old Berkeley of my memory, frozen in time like a hippie Havana. I was carrying a large sack of expensive ground coffee, which I somehow spilled. And I thought, This shit is expensive, so I knelt on the ground and tried to scoop it up – and I realized the coffee had spilled on this nest of expensive-looking, Etruscan-style jewelry, so I tried to scoop that up, too – lovely silver amethyst earring dangles, an emerald ring. The coffee had spilled on the lost-and-found bin of a cinema art house, the manager came running out –
“You owe me a pound of coffee,” I told the manager. Coolly – so as to cover up the fact that I’d actually been stealing from the lost-and-found bin.
“Oh, get over yourself, Patty,” said a passerby.
I looked up and realized I knew the guy, but I couldn’t remember from where –
“Refresh my memory,” I said.
“I washed your socks,” he said. “Didn’t ask for an exchange for the service.”
He was a holdover from an earlier part of the labyrinthine dream.
He was walking with a beautiful young black girl and an earnest-looking young Latino guy. They were discussing art.
“See, real art is like sandblasting,” the guy who had spoken to me said. “You don’t create by adding. You create by taking away.”
“Right,” the beautiful young black girl said. “Plus the representation of something is always in some way its opposite. If you push off strongly enough from something, the strength of the movement will always get you right back to the thing you pushed off from.”
When I woke up, I still couldn’t recognize the man in my dream although I can see his face as I type this, and it’s at once utterly forgettable and utterly familiar…
In other news, the To Do list is now a page long, so I’m gonna have to buckle down and do some serious Errand Mongering today.
Wrist still aches. Did not want to drive yesterday. Did not want to flex the wrist.
It’s an odd feeling to know that I’m at a point in my life where I don’t have to do much of anything, really. I’ll still survive.
But survival is not the point.
I want to go to California in May. I want to go to Cuba, too, next year before American redevelopment $$$$ moves in. I want to spend a month in Xela in early 2016 learning Spanish. I want to do the Mitford tour that fall. And all those trips require resources.
Haven’t really worked on fiction since I got back from New Mexico. Of course, this time of year feels like everyone – including me – has just hit the pause button somehow. Plus, you know, the sun sets at 4:30. The lack of daylight is hard on me.
There was a whole sequence of movies I had made – I was a cinema verite director, French New Wave.
Brad Pitt was in it – the young, dreamy Brad Pitt when he was still playing with personas – Should I be James Dean or Robert Wagner? He was toying with me romantically, and I knew he was toying with me, but he was a Big Celebrity, so it was okay. We were supposed to go to the beach, but then he got a phone call, his children on the phone, and I could tell he was beset with guilt.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We don’t have to do this.”
And he looked so relieved.
Then I was walking through Berkeley – the old Berkeley of my memory, frozen in time like a hippie Havana. I was carrying a large sack of expensive ground coffee, which I somehow spilled. And I thought, This shit is expensive, so I knelt on the ground and tried to scoop it up – and I realized the coffee had spilled on this nest of expensive-looking, Etruscan-style jewelry, so I tried to scoop that up, too – lovely silver amethyst earring dangles, an emerald ring. The coffee had spilled on the lost-and-found bin of a cinema art house, the manager came running out –
“You owe me a pound of coffee,” I told the manager. Coolly – so as to cover up the fact that I’d actually been stealing from the lost-and-found bin.
“Oh, get over yourself, Patty,” said a passerby.
I looked up and realized I knew the guy, but I couldn’t remember from where –
“Refresh my memory,” I said.
“I washed your socks,” he said. “Didn’t ask for an exchange for the service.”
He was a holdover from an earlier part of the labyrinthine dream.
He was walking with a beautiful young black girl and an earnest-looking young Latino guy. They were discussing art.
“See, real art is like sandblasting,” the guy who had spoken to me said. “You don’t create by adding. You create by taking away.”
“Right,” the beautiful young black girl said. “Plus the representation of something is always in some way its opposite. If you push off strongly enough from something, the strength of the movement will always get you right back to the thing you pushed off from.”
When I woke up, I still couldn’t recognize the man in my dream although I can see his face as I type this, and it’s at once utterly forgettable and utterly familiar…
In other news, the To Do list is now a page long, so I’m gonna have to buckle down and do some serious Errand Mongering today.
Wrist still aches. Did not want to drive yesterday. Did not want to flex the wrist.
It’s an odd feeling to know that I’m at a point in my life where I don’t have to do much of anything, really. I’ll still survive.
But survival is not the point.
I want to go to California in May. I want to go to Cuba, too, next year before American redevelopment $$$$ moves in. I want to spend a month in Xela in early 2016 learning Spanish. I want to do the Mitford tour that fall. And all those trips require resources.
Haven’t really worked on fiction since I got back from New Mexico. Of course, this time of year feels like everyone – including me – has just hit the pause button somehow. Plus, you know, the sun sets at 4:30. The lack of daylight is hard on me.
