It was a dream in high school, so detailed it was like watching a film. There were plot tw
ists, a consistent circle of characters, recurring themes and even a maguffin. Crazy. I woke up and set it down on paper. It grew into an entire history with a contemporary plot, set in the ordinary world with fantastical pieces as something thick and lush, wound in ways I couldn't weave. There's only one problem: the dream ended. There was a magician, a knife, a Frenchman in the form of Jean Reno, and then nothing. I have no idea what happens 
next.
I considered if I can't pull the rest of the story from my dreams, I should pull from reality. But so far that's been like melding two songs in different keys: pure cacophony. Work, play, home life, none of them work. And then there's my secret life, the alter ego...but you can't just throw that in and expect it to work.
What do you do with the knife, the magician and the Frenchman? I always hope the sequel will meet me in another dream, but so far no dice.
Last night I dreamed I was working with a school in some foreign country. It was a once a week commitment and I was always late, riding my bike as fast as possible through barrios and slums. My GPS (yes, the GPS on my bike) brought me to a large stolid building of stone, more massive in height than anything else, because I could easily have ridden around it on either side. But I didn't. I obeyed my GPS like I was on a leash, and entered the building through the massive, rough wooden doors. They must have closed behind me because then I was riding through darkness, so thick I couldn't see. But I got the gist.
On each side were piles of people, who lived there day after day in complete darkness, never touching light. They were poor, sick and dying, writhing together in a massive heap. Like I said, I couldn't see them, but somehow the image made its way to my mind. I rode my bike down the center of these piles of people without anything, or anybody, blocking my path, reaching the other end of the hall where a splinter of sunlight forced its way through the cracks outlining another large wooden door. Here a tall, thin man with streaked hair and a leer stood in my way. I swerved to my left, so did he. I moved right, and he side stepped in my way. For a terrified moment, I paused, but a woman at the door looked back at me and the man stood down, letting me pass.
The woman, who was using an old bike like a table, nodded with a knowing smile toward my GPS then consulted her own as I made my way out.
I made it to the school that day, just in time. Shaken from riding through piles of bodies, I didn't join in the vibrant conversation the teachers were having.
Apparently I made that journey a lot, sometimes avoiding the dark hall but often going straight through, every time meeting the tall man who liked to get in my way. I was afraid because I knew I was tempting the odds and one day the people would grab hold of me, keep me in that hall and I would disappear. Nobody would ever know to look for me there.
The teachers and I rode together in a van to the school one morning, and I asked them about the hall.
"Oh, sure!" they answered. Everyone knew about it. In fact, there was a city plan to empty the hall and transfer all the people elsewhere. The docks, the underside of the freeway, wherever. Our van stopped and we got off, right before the hall. As we walked away, the driver announced there was room for four in the van, and somebody went into the hall to collect four people from the pile of bodies inside.
ists, a consistent circle of characters, recurring themes and even a maguffin. Crazy. I woke up and set it down on paper. It grew into an entire history with a contemporary plot, set in the ordinary world with fantastical pieces as something thick and lush, wound in ways I couldn't weave. There's only one problem: the dream ended. There was a magician, a knife, a Frenchman in the form of Jean Reno, and then nothing. I have no idea what happens next.I considered if I can't pull the rest of the story from my dreams, I should pull from reality. But so far that's been like melding two songs in different keys: pure cacophony. Work, play, home life, none of them work. And then there's my secret life, the alter ego...but you can't just throw that in and expect it to work.
What do you do with the knife, the magician and the Frenchman? I always hope the sequel will meet me in another dream, but so far no dice.
Last night I dreamed I was working with a school in some foreign country. It was a once a week commitment and I was always late, riding my bike as fast as possible through barrios and slums. My GPS (yes, the GPS on my bike) brought me to a large stolid building of stone, more massive in height than anything else, because I could easily have ridden around it on either side. But I didn't. I obeyed my GPS like I was on a leash, and entered the building through the massive, rough wooden doors. They must have closed behind me because then I was riding through darkness, so thick I couldn't see. But I got the gist.
On each side were piles of people, who lived there day after day in complete darkness, never touching light. They were poor, sick and dying, writhing together in a massive heap. Like I said, I couldn't see them, but somehow the image made its way to my mind. I rode my bike down the center of these piles of people without anything, or anybody, blocking my path, reaching the other end of the hall where a splinter of sunlight forced its way through the cracks outlining another large wooden door. Here a tall, thin man with streaked hair and a leer stood in my way. I swerved to my left, so did he. I moved right, and he side stepped in my way. For a terrified moment, I paused, but a woman at the door looked back at me and the man stood down, letting me pass.
The woman, who was using an old bike like a table, nodded with a knowing smile toward my GPS then consulted her own as I made my way out.
I made it to the school that day, just in time. Shaken from riding through piles of bodies, I didn't join in the vibrant conversation the teachers were having.
Apparently I made that journey a lot, sometimes avoiding the dark hall but often going straight through, every time meeting the tall man who liked to get in my way. I was afraid because I knew I was tempting the odds and one day the people would grab hold of me, keep me in that hall and I would disappear. Nobody would ever know to look for me there.
The teachers and I rode together in a van to the school one morning, and I asked them about the hall.
"Oh, sure!" they answered. Everyone knew about it. In fact, there was a city plan to empty the hall and transfer all the people elsewhere. The docks, the underside of the freeway, wherever. Our van stopped and we got off, right before the hall. As we walked away, the driver announced there was room for four in the van, and somebody went into the hall to collect four people from the pile of bodies inside.
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