Last night, I had an amazing dream where I was put to the test. I had to remember a specific type of poem, inspired by text/image work. So, in this dream, I had to answer a question and luckily I nailed it! I don't remember the question, but the answer was something like this: it's when a line of poetry (a text) is inspired by two photographs (an image). Although it may not appear so, within the realm of this dream, the stakes were high. It reminded me of when I write poems in my dreams and, during the dream, try so hard to remember what I've written, knowing very well that soon I will wake up. Sadly, I never remember these dream poems. I usually wake up thinking, WOW, I'm a pretty good poet in my dreams. Ah, in my dreams...
All of a sudden, lounging by a pool that is really the ocean. The beach is not made of sand, but millions of skin-soft pebbles. We could really be in the South of France with rocks like these. But my passport is out of hand. My currency is lost.
It's cold where we are, so we wear fleece and wool on this beach. It's how it always is watching a sunset in San Francisco. It's how is always is setting the tone. With a bit of footwork we are home. We are watching a television show of our lives, we live on a island. We crossed not a single body of water to get there.
There was once a wish to live inside the dollhouse of my childhood. Of course, I made the perfect home. Everything was miniature, and just the way I wanted it. Everything was seen from the outside, looking in.
Sitting in a chair, there is notsuch thing as feeling left out or on the margins. The alarm inside your body goes off before the one on your phone. Grandfather clock was stolen and you forget what time it is. Is someone else here, or am I alone? Is it daytime yet, or are we supposed to be awake together in this night. Now there is a we. There are two of us squeezed inside this chair. Six arms.
Now it makes sense, love spell. I took this like a potion, through an inhale, in the bath. There were candles, bubble foam, and a glass of cold water. Always a glass of cold water so as not to overheat. Swimming underwater, I am suddenly breathing. I used to play mermaid. I used to have a dollhouse. Now I am a mermaid and where I live, this apartment, is not quite a house.
Back to breathing, back to sand. I found my passport. It's in the drawer of my desk, along with my checkbook, stamps, movie rental membership card, and college ID. There is no work today, or in this dream, there is no land. My currency, my feet. When I woke up this morning, I remembered no lines of the poem, or on its face. A young, a youthful, chime of words, this work. There were images, I remember. I believe there was an image I could not muster. I tried to not forget what I saw, and, or why, how I tried to understand.