I dreamed I was writing a newspaper article. I was fighting with the wording of it. I was in a study but the room wasn’t mine. Object repetition in dreams is strange. An old friend of mine, Angus, used to always dream of a blue bong. It would always be there somewhere in the background of his dreams. For me also there are objects that turn up over and over again and which in some way are meaningful. A dark green standard desk lamp. Frosted glass with gold and black lettering. Sepia tones. Black coffee. A bright spotlight and darkened room. ‘H’ pencils in a jar. Blue-grey smoke from a cigarette in a green glass ashtray. …and thus this room that I find myself in is familiar, and yet unfamiliar at the same time.
Upon awaking I remembered the whole article that I had written and I felt pleased, because I knew it was the way I wished it to be, and it was finished. …The memory of the dream rapidly faded and now although I remember the intentions I had in writing the piece, the precise wording, that I had felt so pleased with, has gone completely, faded back into that dream world without me, as dreams are want to do. I can still see the title of my carefully crafted article:
The idea of a conspiracy: memes of greed
Maybe I’ll actually write it one day, and maybe I won’t. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. I am reluctant to attempt to think further of writing down what I do remember of it. Already I am left with that feeling that anyone who has ever lost their work and yet been forced to attempt to re-write it from memory will be only too familiar with. The words are perhaps the same, but things are phrased not quite as they were before. Sentences do not gel together as they did in the original, and maybe, maybe it’s okay. However because it is discordant with what I remember of the original it sounds cacophonous as I speak the words in my head. It is an uncomfotable feeling.