- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 2081
I'm at N***'s, (not N***'s, dream N***'s), it's late, seems there's a party or something going on, she's in the next room watching some TV show, pseudo-scientific BS narrated by every alumni from Star Trek, her child is engrossed in something...we're not speaking, really, N*** and I, so I decide to pop out and grab some Vodka. I ask her if she want's something, she tells me a bottle of Grappa, and I'm a little surprised, she's holding a little glass mini, squarish, J&B embossed on the side, double check, no, she wants Grappa...
...Now I'm looking for my boots, and everywhere in her house there are boots that resemble mine, her boyfriend, 7 or 8 pair of leather workboots, drywall boots, beside my skates, N*** boots, a pair of leather boots that seem to be mine, searching, everywhere, everywhere there are boots, hundreds of pairs, but I can't for all my searching find my boots, and I need to leave...
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 2102
I'm with a friend (I don't know) and he's run into a friend of his...they're all covered in these crudely done, prison style tattoos, of numbers, signs, symbols, they're railroad employees and these tattoos show every stop you've been to along the railway...they're comparing them, gushing over every place the other has been, I ask if I can take a picture, one agrees, rolls up his sleeves, no face pictures (although he has a couple on his face...)...
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 2201
I'm driving somewhere south of Calgary, West of Lethbridge, a country road, then the best picture ever, the sun setting, sky turning every shade of over-saturated blue, moon rising, I'm taking pictures...a barn, big, red, tourist, rising up from the edges of the river...a row of trees trace silhouettes against the sky....photography gold...
Down, to the farm, I work here, haven't worked here forever, don't know if they remember me, some sort of tourist farm, with shops for all the visitors, I'm trying to find where I fit in, don't know, it's busy and understaffed...
...And I'm wondering, when did I last work here? And do they have a cheque for me? I'm not sure, not sure if anyone remembers me, soooo many tourists, don't know where to start, which shop to man...
...I find myself wondering, I've driven here from Calgary, to work, so far, 3 hours, and I'm not sure if they remember me, have my cheque, only I remember they told me I'd be back, and I'm thinking that this is bollocks and so I return to my car, leave the tourist barn filled with shops, drive back towards Calgary, I need to get a job closer to home...
(Sick the past couple of days, chest, head cold, sleeping 12, 14 hours per day, these amongst the feverish dreams...)
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 1920
And I wonder at the impression that Philadelphia must have made upon me, for twice in succession it's been referred to in my dreams, so it has some significance, or meaning, beyond the vacation or the place, and I need to puzzle this out...
- Details
- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 2060
(A dodgy slice of pizza from the most dodgy corner shop in the world, chewy cardboard, dark lighting, and yesterday I'm surprised, runny nose, sore throat, fever, feel like shit all the work-long day. I was fine the day before, all I can think is to blame the pizza, home from work, bed, sweating up a storm, the recollection of dreams...)
...That I'm somewhere on the East Coast, Philadelphia, say, driving around in the inner city hoods, old hotels, houses, I park my car, a newer model Volvo SUV or sports-wagon, and go to sleep on a sofa some hippies have left on their lawn...the next morning, getting up, I can't find my car, walking around the block, there's a wreckers, and I'm concernedly checking there, everywhere, ask the hippies when they come outside, nobody knows where my car is...
Everywhere the air of faded grandeur, of wealth gone to ruin and decay, inside an old hotel, high ceilings and gilt peeling from plaster, it's a precinct and I'm asking the police about my Volvo, where is it? And they find out that it's been towed, and I'm asking where to, and they're telling me someplace far away, how much? they don't know, outside it's dark and I can see the lights of the city twinkling...
The dream changes...
Now, at atmosphere of infinite melancholy, of a love affair gone terribly wrong, I'm half participant, half observer in this dream...
There are a couple of dark haired children, a boy and a girl, and there's somebody with me, I don't know who, female, and we're in the woods near an old house, looking for works by a famous American Folk Artist who worked with twigs and found objects, old boats, lumber, trees, we know him, have seen his works in museums, but here, everywhere we find only the places where he's cropped his inspiration from, twigs missing in the forest, the imprint of a boat, a log removed from the leaves, it's everywhere twilight and the dark haired children run away, laughing and playing, and I'm waking up, want to see how this works out, I don't understand, is the love story about them, or about the other and me? ....
(Wake up, the sheets are soaking, feel marginally better, long night...)