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Schrodinger's Pat
Friday, 28 November 2014 09:21 pmI Know. But I Do Not Approve. And I Am Not Resigned.
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Very vivid dream the other night, rather Kafkaesque.
I had been getting phone calls from someone who would tell me that Pat was still alive and that she'd be coming home in X number of days. Some of the time I didn't know who it was calling, and some of the time I knew, and I knew they couldn't be trusted. But I always believed them, and it always made me insanely happy, just utterly blissful. In three days, or four, or a week, Pat would be home. She had been kidnapped, she had been dead, she had been visiting her family in Florida, she had been in California, she was on the other side of town— The story kept changing, the number of days kept changing, but my crazy happiness was always the same.
For a day or so I would be counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Then I would start forgetting that she was coming home. First I couldn't remember how many days it was supposed to be, then I couldn't remember—had I missed her? Had she come and gone while I wasn't looking? I would start looking around my house for clues. I don't know what kind of clues these would be, but I kept looking in a dresser that belonged to my grandmother that was in a room in an apartment in a movie, which was not actually in my house, but that's the first place I'd look. And then I'd check under the bed. And I'd wonder if the phone call had been real, or if the person had been lying, or just what was going on.
Then I'd get another call.
Finally I called my friend, Renie, who was a private detective in California in my dream. (Really, she works in the same building I do, and not as a private detective. Or if she is one, she's really, really good.) I think she had Philip Marlow's office; all that was in B&W. I told her what had been going on, the phone calls, not knowing where Pat was, all of it, and she told me she'd find Pat for me.
I got calls from Pat's family—she was in a car, she was on her way, she was still in Florida, she was still dead, the story would change every time I talked to someone and sometimes I'd be happy because she was alive and coming home, and sometimes I couldn't remember how many days it had been since they said it would be two days, had I missed it? How could I forget?
Posted simultaneously on LiveJournal, Dreamwidth, and WordPress.
Dirge Without Music, Edna St. Vincent Millay
-:- -:- -:-
Very vivid dream the other night, rather Kafkaesque.
I had been getting phone calls from someone who would tell me that Pat was still alive and that she'd be coming home in X number of days. Some of the time I didn't know who it was calling, and some of the time I knew, and I knew they couldn't be trusted. But I always believed them, and it always made me insanely happy, just utterly blissful. In three days, or four, or a week, Pat would be home. She had been kidnapped, she had been dead, she had been visiting her family in Florida, she had been in California, she was on the other side of town— The story kept changing, the number of days kept changing, but my crazy happiness was always the same.
For a day or so I would be counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Then I would start forgetting that she was coming home. First I couldn't remember how many days it was supposed to be, then I couldn't remember—had I missed her? Had she come and gone while I wasn't looking? I would start looking around my house for clues. I don't know what kind of clues these would be, but I kept looking in a dresser that belonged to my grandmother that was in a room in an apartment in a movie, which was not actually in my house, but that's the first place I'd look. And then I'd check under the bed. And I'd wonder if the phone call had been real, or if the person had been lying, or just what was going on.
Then I'd get another call.
Finally I called my friend, Renie, who was a private detective in California in my dream. (Really, she works in the same building I do, and not as a private detective. Or if she is one, she's really, really good.) I think she had Philip Marlow's office; all that was in B&W. I told her what had been going on, the phone calls, not knowing where Pat was, all of it, and she told me she'd find Pat for me.
I got calls from Pat's family—she was in a car, she was on her way, she was still in Florida, she was still dead, the story would change every time I talked to someone and sometimes I'd be happy because she was alive and coming home, and sometimes I couldn't remember how many days it had been since they said it would be two days, had I missed it? How could I forget?
Posted simultaneously on LiveJournal, Dreamwidth, and WordPress.
Dirge Without Music, Edna St. Vincent Millay