These Were a Few of the Dreams

These were a few of the images retained:

The final scene is all she remembers.

Massive black horses in water—a marsh, blue sky, angry cumulus darkness roiling in the distance.

They need this, a disembodied voice says. They stand in this water to take the weight off their veiny haunches. It’s therapeutic.

Instantly, she and her horse are a mile out at sea in deep swelling water. The horses swim as if a maelstrom wasn’t upon them—they’re enjoying it—the ocean breaking over their heads.

She isn’t enjoying this—briny fear and seafoam in her nostrils.

And in another instant the sea is drained, there is no tumult, but she is suspended two feet above the seabed, just feet from the old beach line. The marsh is now reedy savanna.

Someone is screaming—bear, bear—in the reeds behind a tall chain-link fence. She has to start her long hike, but she can’t get out of her frozen hover. She can’t move.

These were a few of the dreams. Then she remembers her Shelley. She mutters: We rest.—A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day…

This is a bit of the wreckage.

What I’m listening To:

“Imagine your father was naked and you had just fallen through the ceiling into a room full of soft moist eyeballs…
I can’t tell you but my mind keeps fading away
And you keep trying but you don’t got nothing to say
So we tried stealing but somebody took it away…”

— Butthole Surfers / “Boiled Dove”