I can dream about you
Apparently I'm working through something in my subconcious. My dreams had a disturbing theme last night.
Five families are secret, united through time as the royal families of a hidden country. The castle rises in reds and greens and marbles in a clearing, and a nurse tells her charge that when she finally walks through the door of the temple, the spirits of 200 princesses will guide her to the throne. And then suddenly I’m at a wedding, and my husband’s brother is marrying the princess. And the bottom of the round spire that is all that’s left of the ruin of the castle and temple is carved in bas relief and statues of princesses ring it, all of them standing in line, waiting for someone, waving their scarves. The statues come to life, and the women all look the same, all beautiful, all tall, all with long blonde hair and vague smiles. Until the last few women, who are this last couple of generations, and they are the real women. They are shorter, not as young, not as pretty, and they have different types of hair; normal women. The last princess is the one who is getting married to my brother-in-law. But I’m not allowed in the line of royal family, although my husband is, and our child. And I’m so irritated that I’m not good enough to be family. And my son is misbehaving, and I can’t go into the line and deal with him, because I’m not family. I complain bitterly to my friends. They all commiserate, and say the food isn’t that good, anyway.
Another dream, and it’s a group of my friends who are writers, who are gathering for a month-long workshop. I’m not in the workshop, but I meet them every day for breakfast. I say “I know when you all leave I’m going to miss you. It’s not fair I only get to see you at breakfast.” They smile at me, talk of the workshop with casual complaints and drama, the way people do when they’re doing something they love but they can’t allow themselves to be happy in front of others. We order tea and toast and marmalade, and I wish I could think of something witty to say. I’m so grateful that they spend time with me, and allow me to meet them, but I know I’m not a real writer, because I’m not part of the workshop. I feel like an outsider, but I want to be here with them so much I can't not come. They all seem so much smarter than me.
Another dream, and I am a slave. My country was overrun by the people I must now work for. But now their country is overrun by another. My country, and the country I work for now were both backward and relied on ancient warfare. But we’ve been running from tanks and guns and helicopters. And we huddle, refugees on land that used to belong to the family I belong to. Soldiers erupt from the forest, from the hills around us. They were disguised as trees, as rocks, as the ground we run on. They emerge like gods, with rifles and loud voices, and there is nowhere to go. A soldier forms from the rock of the mountain in front of us, becoming human from dirt and scrub, but he doesn’t ever completely become human. Leaves and rock make up his skin, and his voice propels us as though he were the mountain speaking. I protect the youngest daughter of the family in my arms from their guns, from their voices like grating boulders and thunder. I have on a gray gown of sacking, that is surprisingly soft, but I don’t have shoes. I cower with the women as the men are herded from us by the butts of rifles and the shouting. The girl I protect is small, screaming, clinging to me as we stumble to a rude hut. I have to explain to her that now her country has been invaded, as mine was years ago. She is only now understanding that perhaps I didn’t want to be a slave. All of my family is dead, save for my father who was at sea when my country was overrun. I have hopes my father looks for me still. I picture a great sailing ship, a proud man at the helm, and a bright mist. The girl thinks if she’d known, she’d have tried to find my father for me, but now it’s too late. I try to coax the girl to eat, but she is starving herself from despair. All we have to eat is a thin, white-ish gruel, but a cook says she can maybe get some chicken broth. She is short and has a kind face. The soldiers look at me with pity and disgust, that I should be a slave, and still care for this girl. But she’s only a child, and I can’t let her die without trying. I ghost through a kitchen gray with dust and cobwebs, tin dishes on the open shelves and rats scuttling in corners, hoping to find soup or bread.
Morphing to another dream. My grandfather, who really died in ’92, has returned from a long journey. We are all in his house that is not his house, my whole family and a few others, and he looks a little irritated with us. The rest of my family is playing a loud game in the backyard, shouting and laughing. We can see them through the sliding glass door. I ask him if he’s glad to be home, even though we’re all here unexpectedly, and he says yes, a little gruffly, that his legs were bothering him, and it’s good to sit on his own couch. The couch is red and cream and flowered, and looks well loved. His dog, who is black and white and about 35 pounds (although he never had a dog since I was born) was snuggling on the back of the couch, trying to get comfy, but she kept falling between the cushions and getting stuck. He laughed and told her she was too big for the back of the couch, and lifted her out. I couldn't stop looking at him, because I wanted him to be proud of me, but I wasn’t sure what to say to him. He looked so fond of his dog. I wanted to hug them both, but didn’t move.
I managed to get some good work done last night on the novel. It's more than I usually get through in a night. I pushed myself to get further, even though I wasn't entirely happy with the scene. My biggest problem is turning off the internal editor. Yes, I am capable of writing finished and polished scenes right away. But not if I want to get anywhere. I can't write as though I have to turn in my pages to a teacher to be graded. It's really hard for me to just allow the dialogue to be a little clunky, and the prose to not be as perfect and gripping as I can make it when I'm drafting. But fixing those things means that I'm stuck on a page at a time, and I wonder why this story is sitting and staring at me, stuck. So I'm working on that. Last night was good. Remembering that I can polish later.
It may be why I had those dreams, though. Silly writer, quit obsessing!
Five families are secret, united through time as the royal families of a hidden country. The castle rises in reds and greens and marbles in a clearing, and a nurse tells her charge that when she finally walks through the door of the temple, the spirits of 200 princesses will guide her to the throne. And then suddenly I’m at a wedding, and my husband’s brother is marrying the princess. And the bottom of the round spire that is all that’s left of the ruin of the castle and temple is carved in bas relief and statues of princesses ring it, all of them standing in line, waiting for someone, waving their scarves. The statues come to life, and the women all look the same, all beautiful, all tall, all with long blonde hair and vague smiles. Until the last few women, who are this last couple of generations, and they are the real women. They are shorter, not as young, not as pretty, and they have different types of hair; normal women. The last princess is the one who is getting married to my brother-in-law. But I’m not allowed in the line of royal family, although my husband is, and our child. And I’m so irritated that I’m not good enough to be family. And my son is misbehaving, and I can’t go into the line and deal with him, because I’m not family. I complain bitterly to my friends. They all commiserate, and say the food isn’t that good, anyway.
Another dream, and it’s a group of my friends who are writers, who are gathering for a month-long workshop. I’m not in the workshop, but I meet them every day for breakfast. I say “I know when you all leave I’m going to miss you. It’s not fair I only get to see you at breakfast.” They smile at me, talk of the workshop with casual complaints and drama, the way people do when they’re doing something they love but they can’t allow themselves to be happy in front of others. We order tea and toast and marmalade, and I wish I could think of something witty to say. I’m so grateful that they spend time with me, and allow me to meet them, but I know I’m not a real writer, because I’m not part of the workshop. I feel like an outsider, but I want to be here with them so much I can't not come. They all seem so much smarter than me.
Another dream, and I am a slave. My country was overrun by the people I must now work for. But now their country is overrun by another. My country, and the country I work for now were both backward and relied on ancient warfare. But we’ve been running from tanks and guns and helicopters. And we huddle, refugees on land that used to belong to the family I belong to. Soldiers erupt from the forest, from the hills around us. They were disguised as trees, as rocks, as the ground we run on. They emerge like gods, with rifles and loud voices, and there is nowhere to go. A soldier forms from the rock of the mountain in front of us, becoming human from dirt and scrub, but he doesn’t ever completely become human. Leaves and rock make up his skin, and his voice propels us as though he were the mountain speaking. I protect the youngest daughter of the family in my arms from their guns, from their voices like grating boulders and thunder. I have on a gray gown of sacking, that is surprisingly soft, but I don’t have shoes. I cower with the women as the men are herded from us by the butts of rifles and the shouting. The girl I protect is small, screaming, clinging to me as we stumble to a rude hut. I have to explain to her that now her country has been invaded, as mine was years ago. She is only now understanding that perhaps I didn’t want to be a slave. All of my family is dead, save for my father who was at sea when my country was overrun. I have hopes my father looks for me still. I picture a great sailing ship, a proud man at the helm, and a bright mist. The girl thinks if she’d known, she’d have tried to find my father for me, but now it’s too late. I try to coax the girl to eat, but she is starving herself from despair. All we have to eat is a thin, white-ish gruel, but a cook says she can maybe get some chicken broth. She is short and has a kind face. The soldiers look at me with pity and disgust, that I should be a slave, and still care for this girl. But she’s only a child, and I can’t let her die without trying. I ghost through a kitchen gray with dust and cobwebs, tin dishes on the open shelves and rats scuttling in corners, hoping to find soup or bread.
Morphing to another dream. My grandfather, who really died in ’92, has returned from a long journey. We are all in his house that is not his house, my whole family and a few others, and he looks a little irritated with us. The rest of my family is playing a loud game in the backyard, shouting and laughing. We can see them through the sliding glass door. I ask him if he’s glad to be home, even though we’re all here unexpectedly, and he says yes, a little gruffly, that his legs were bothering him, and it’s good to sit on his own couch. The couch is red and cream and flowered, and looks well loved. His dog, who is black and white and about 35 pounds (although he never had a dog since I was born) was snuggling on the back of the couch, trying to get comfy, but she kept falling between the cushions and getting stuck. He laughed and told her she was too big for the back of the couch, and lifted her out. I couldn't stop looking at him, because I wanted him to be proud of me, but I wasn’t sure what to say to him. He looked so fond of his dog. I wanted to hug them both, but didn’t move.
I managed to get some good work done last night on the novel. It's more than I usually get through in a night. I pushed myself to get further, even though I wasn't entirely happy with the scene. My biggest problem is turning off the internal editor. Yes, I am capable of writing finished and polished scenes right away. But not if I want to get anywhere. I can't write as though I have to turn in my pages to a teacher to be graded. It's really hard for me to just allow the dialogue to be a little clunky, and the prose to not be as perfect and gripping as I can make it when I'm drafting. But fixing those things means that I'm stuck on a page at a time, and I wonder why this story is sitting and staring at me, stuck. So I'm working on that. Last night was good. Remembering that I can polish later.
It may be why I had those dreams, though. Silly writer, quit obsessing!