I’ve just noticed for the first time that this true event reads like a dream — in fact, more like a dream than some of the dreams I’ve recorded. Now, what do you suppose that means? And what does it mean that the memory of the event also seems like a dream? Does it mean memory, in general, is a dream? When I say, No, this really happened, do I […]
I have to laugh: the preface sounds almost as if it means something. Ghostly storytellers and night-blue mirrors aside, it begins with a question which, for me, aptly defines the dream experience, and that of sleep and wakefulness as well. Which is which, though, remains agreeably subject to question. Of course this is familiar ground; I speak of it often; I might even say that most, if not all, of […]
Ah, for those precious moments alone, with every dream, every hope, and each imagined failing. As if for the first time, you see your house on the edge of the moor, suppertime done, the dim lamps burning; it’s almost on a hill. You close your eyes, and hug the gnarled trunk: your father, the wind in his hair. How young he once was! How old he is now! And your […]
It might be coincidence, and probably is; on the other hand, why would I have awakened from a dream this morning in which I was repeating the Japanese word kangai, of all things, when I, to the best of my memory and knowledge, have never encountered the word? “Strong feelings; deep emotion,” one definition says, which is mingled with a sense of “nostalgia or contemplation.” And now I look at […]
Writing about dreams is much more difficult than writing the dreams themselves. On the other hand, writing is a dream, and being able to write is possibly the greatest dream of all. So perhaps it’s best to look at it from this vantage point: parts of the dream are written, while other parts, though not written, influence the written parts so much that they read like highway signs on my […]
A child’s doll has died — such an innocent, heartbreaking image, easy to accept within the context of a dream, as is the doll’s resurrection. While it’s faithfully recorded from my own experience, the passage reads like fiction; perhaps that is why, if a child in the neighborhood told me her doll had died, I would believe her, and offer whatever sympathy and help she needed, even if that help […]
Upon returning to the short piece Dream Baby, I am pleased to see how recounting a simple dream, which was pleasant enough itself, leads to a passage of memory, which then transforms itself into a kind of poetic, universal love story. While I am the hairy old uncle and grandfather, I also embody the uncles and grandfather of my childhood, their whiskery familiarity and smell. In a sense, the dream […]
Aye, there’s the rub. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause. When in doubt, quote Shakespeare. And when you’re not in doubt, quote yourself, that others may doubt you — not that they deserve the chance, but it will make them feel better after having had yet another rough night’s sleep. Because the truth is, […]
My father died in 1995, yet I know him a little better each year, one quiet revelation at a time. This is a way of saying I know myself better, for the former cannot happen without the latter. How well he knew himself, though, I wouldn’t presume to judge, for he has surprised me many times, and will likely go on surprising me as long as my memory holds. It’s […]
The face on the right might be appropriate for a volume about ancient Rome; the one on the left looks almost as old, as if a monk long ago had seen it in a dream — or maybe the dreamer was drawn by another monk while he was asleep. Or maybe both were asleep. Either way, however it happened, I myself awoke from a dream this morning in which I […]
William Michaelian 