“…dream with the dreamer, but never forget that the dreamer will wake up in a world devoid of dreams.” Helena’s meditation on Cornell’s fascination with Houdini. Hotel Andromeda, 113
That is how it is. Every morning. Enfolded in dreams in slee, resisting waking until forced by my body’s needs. I stand in the shower still half dreaming. Almost hallucination. Things—what they are, and what they are in dreams. The unwelcome, forced, hurried interlude of dressing, washing dishes, breakfast. This sets the rhythm for the day.
Going to a demonstration, attending a street medic meeting—this too, another kind of dream-time, & when it’s not, when I sense it won’t & cannot be that, I balk, I stay home. It’s a terrible thing to be awake in this world…nothing but awake, no dream to sustain you.
The waking dream, the sleeper’s dream, are compliments. For me. They are.
Both: activism and art, are my ways of dreaming the world, another world, something more than what the terrible IS of the world. For one, a way of dreaming with the world, for the other, bringing my dream to the world. Either without the other… a descent into madness.