(no subject)
Tambara? Remember when were living together in Niger and I’d shoot up in the middle of the night screaming like a train speeding out of the Hell? And you would remark, some dream you musta been having. It was terrifying. I knew the sound of the scream moments before it fled my mouth like a flock of birds in chaos at the order of a gun, and I knew it aftewards. I knew what I must look like sitting up straight as a pole in bed, I have never sat with such remarkable posture in all my life. And I knew how a helpless figure like that emerging from the bedsheets, half attached like some kind of a sonorous merman dissolves into the vagueness and despair of the fruitless night. I woke up screaming like that the other night here in Mexico. Only it occurred to me this time, always at a loss for what devilish nightmare was plaguing my glands, that I was not screaming because insects and demons were terrorizing the soft fruits of my subconscious but that I was mortified of what was happening outside- beyond the meadows of my bed and further into the night. I was afraid of what I might be missing. It occurs to me now, upon further reflection- this terrible fear of what was passing beyond- of what threat loomed in the awake- in the time inhabited while my conscious slept was a sort of dream itself. Because when I got upto explore. . . . . the apartment was empty and the plants were quiet- here I could hear nothing but the crickets, and there not a thing but the gentle calls of chanting and praying- like harmless whispers. Nothing was happening- it's astonishing that nothing can generate such a paralyzing, almost shattering sound.