I have a lot of free-floating anxiety this morning, like I am forgetting to do something hugely important, but I don’t know what it is. I’ve been having nightmares the last couple days. One was about how my parents tricked me into being late for my own reading on Saturday, by taking me out to eat in LaSalle/Peru.
It’s weird. You know how… or maybe you don’t… I assume this is true for everyone, but maybe not. I have a house in my dreams that is “my old house.” And it’s based loosely on the parsonage we lived in when I was in kindergarten. It’s the last place I lived before the Butcher was born. Anyway, it’s that house, but filled with more staircases and secret passages and more stories than you can rightfully count. And it’s always attached to a church. But that church usually looks more like the church where we held my grandpa’s funeral crossed with the Aledo church than it does the church that would have belonged to the parsonage “my old house” is based on.
It doesn’t always look exactly the same–”my old house.” I think that’s part of the multiple staircases and uncountable floors. It shifts as dreams demand. But it is always recognizable as “my old house.” It is the place I used to live, according to my dreams, and I must always return there.
I bring that up because I’m starting to realize that I live in a different landscape in my dreams, too. I still live in Illinois. Everything is flat and straight and all towns are parallel or at right angles to each other. And so, LaSalle/Peru was just far enough away to make me dreadfully late for my reading, but not so far away that I couldn’t make it (though I didn’t, because I left everything I needed at K. & B.’s apartment).
I don’t really remember my nightmare last night, just that I woke up thinking, “I must remember about the couch. That’s pretty brilliant.” But what was brilliant about my couch? I can’t remember.