Tuesday, February 2, 2010

I dreamed in film today. Everywhere I went and everything I did was interrupted by a broken stream of still photographs and an endless loop of background scenery from an indie film.
The winter-bare trees against the bullet grey sky. The air, normally so dry, was damp today with flakes of snow like excess sand from an old shoe, and people were hunched and inverted and all exposed skin was an ugly, blotchy raw-fish pink. "I wish this winter would end" - you could see it in their dull eyes. I went to school in the dark. I came home in the dark. The sun did not rise above the level of the buildings. And the dampness entered your bones, along with the cold, and could not be shaken off.
The vegetables in the grocery store are either limp and half-dead, or fluorescent and toxic. It was only -10, and warm enough so that snow was being tracked inside buildings causing brown floods of slush and carpets becoming submerged.
But the pictures: I had one of a boy and girl in a park, in the summer, beneath a greatly branching tree. They were laughing, and the sun caused their faces to be half unseen.
And then one of a market-place, dusty and loud, and the colours: oh! so vibrant!
And a few were memories, snap-shots of time: from travels, books, and this summer: heat from the earth, and the stillness between the trees and berry bushes, and bare-feet pounding the dirt path and running with the slap slap of hardened soles with angry passion across the field and into the forest and crouching, fighting for breath, pulling it from the hot wilderness around me. I was so angry.


  1. I never thought pure poetic description could stand on its own like this. Beautifully written.

  2. thanks postman! im so glad you stopped by! have you heard any more about the book?