'Ff'lo (fflo) wrote,

felt like no two ways about it

Last night I dreamed I was making my way up a not-too-steep mountainside amid not-too-thick pines, across occasional not-too-rocky spots, with a woman who had come along along the way & was continuing up with me, our paths just sort of naturally converging. We walked on, talking of writing and language, among other things. Really connecting. I may have been supposed to have known her before, but, if so, not for long. Wish I could remember better what we'd been talking of. I lay in bed an extra 15 minutes this morning trying in vain to raise more of it to consciousness.

As she & I reached the top of that bit of mountain, we came to a wooden viewing platform, its broad planks worn gray by time & weather. We looked out briefly over the lay of the moderately wooded, moderately rocky valley below, and at the sky---we were on an outcropping on something of a cliff edge. There was a park-service-style bathroom up there around one side of the platform; my companion went in to take advantage of it. Outside I noticed that a poem had been printed on a broad-plank railing around the little structure/building (vs. the on the outside edge of the elaborate deck-like platform). The title of the poem was in a different color---like a grayish light green; the rest was in darker letters. I thought it must have been printed by something like a printing press adapted to stamp such things on such things. I went to read the poem but was interrupted.

Another woman was calling up to me from a lower platform attached to the side of ours, about 10 feet below. She was sitting down, down there, on a piece of the weather-worn Adirondack-y furniture, checking proof copies of the cover of something ---it was in C*rrent M*thematical P*blications blue, but it was the cover for, it said, the W*shington C*llege Republican, with a picture of Geo. W*shington thereon. Took me a minute to see "Republican"---maybe my mind was searching for "Review," which was the R in WCR, the lit mag/rag we published at my school. I'd been thinking, when I'd seen the poem stamped on the wood, of the Broadsides series, my favorite publication of the college. They were one-sheeters. Cool.

The woman below seemed to be more or less K*thy W*gner, who wasn't yet on the faculty when I was in school---she was an alum writer, back in town and hanging out often enough that the writers knew her. And liked her. In the dream, though, she knew who was in the bathroom and she wanted me to get some information from/on this relatively new acquaintance of mine. The scoop in question had something to do with some drama involving the woman's father and some other confusing family member stuff---the others were female relatives, and there was an element of tension in it. There were lots of details (I can't remember now), but the powers that be didn't know how it all fit together. K*thy spoke, as she continued to look over proofs, as if she herself could just ask and find out, but I might have better luck, or get better info. And she acted as if it were assumed I'd do it---for the institution, as its agent. And that I'd not let on why I was asking.

I knew right away I wasn't going to do it. I knew exactly where my loyalties lay. And when my fellow hiker rejoined me, and we turned & took a few steps away from the mysterious K*thy-W*gnerian woman, I started in to tell the girl the story of what had just been asked of me, and how.

It had nothing to do with the "Republican." There was simply no doubt in my mind. I was gonna spill the whole thing, cuz our connection beat any loyalty to an institution, or to people I liked who were, at the moment, representing the interests of one. It wasn't that I knew it was the right thing, or a wise thing, or even a reasonably appropriate thing to do; it was just that I knew it was what I was going to do, and that was all there was to it.

It was the pleasure of such certainty, I do believe, that made me wish the dream had gone on longer, and had me wanting to coax it out to register with my waking mind, so's to have it with me longer that way, if not the other.

Houseguest read or heard recently that the content/plot of a dream doesn't matter so much as does how you feel about it, how you felt about it within it while it was going on. Hadn't thought of this distinction myself. It's a way to ponder dreams, anyway, and I like pondering them. Heck, I like just having them. Especially the vivid ones.

Off to have another now, maybe.

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