january morning 1: the pieces of my dream

As I lie in early January darkness, the pieces of my dream clamber from the sleep abyss, climb up using ropes, hands, legs and strengthened pelvic floor muscles, pulling themselves into my morning and an attempted awakening. The dream pieces struggle alone, chaotically, smells mingle with sound, until I put them together, join the pieces ensemble; trying to remember who went where and why, which dark-haired woman put on plays and lived in China and held my hand softly as I explained ? Why does the sun set so beautifully behind the University Georgian buildings, casting a cherished golden haze? And, who is the twinkle-eyed boy that I am chasing, chasing, chasing in the corridors? I grab some of the pieces and lay them in a line, try to create an order, a narrative, a something from the pieces. Then, I get up, get dressed and drink Chun Mee green tea as my family sleeps. The morning has begun.

The library on the hill

In my dream we had placed the library on the hill. A beautiful thing. A square block of books on white laminated shelves with a space inside to sit and read surrounded by lush, green countryside. We examine the books, I discover volumes that I had forgotten I owned. One beautiful handmade artists book with oriental silk lined pages in mustard yellow, bordeaux and marine blue.  We go inside our house which is near the library and suddenly it starts to rain. It is a violent lashing downpour, fed by a gusting wind. The books are exposed to the elements. We rush out and decide to fetch the car to save the books from the water. A library on the hill - a curious thing.