Last night I dreamt that it was the apocalypse and the world was flooding for a second time, contrary to 'god's' promise in Genesis, and the oceans overflowed and covered the mountains and swept people up. I was swimming through streets, watching the waves come at me, watching peoples responses. There was a woman standing in a glass enclosure, a cube full of smaller cubes filled with glass sculptures. She was very calm, locked the door, and stood behind a desk while the glass cages steadily collapsed with the pressure. She looked down at her feet as the water raised, soaking her legs. I was sucked under water into a subway tunnel telling my family to get out. I started to drown. I was watching myself drown and other people drown in slow motion under water. I wonder if death happens in slow motion. I feel fucked that my perceptions of death are obviously manipulated by the way death is portrayed in film. My dreams and death are cinematic. I stepped outside the dream and watched it happen, telling myself "this is just a dream, this is just a dream, this is just a beautiful sad dream"
I woke up in a panic and fell back asleep almost immediately. It was this brief conscious interval that took me back in time within the dream space. I was now in the subway tunnel again, pre-death, trying to push people out, warning them of their impending doom, but they didn't listen. I escaped though. My boyfriend rescued me with a canoe. What a ridiculous and incongruent finale. I don't like happy endings, even if they do imply good things about my relationship. Heroism, meh.
My afternoon was pleasant. Apple wine and cold cold beer, Foucault and Marcuse, sun bathing in boxer shorts and bikini, cool breeze nice enough to take off the edge, mango salad and ribs, Casablanca and Marvin Gaye, laughing with my sister and long naps, passive lectures from my mother concerning my 'sailor's mouth' and 'smokers cough,' leisurely cigarettes and a cold in relapse, just enough to induce mild fatigue and justify physical laziness.
Tomorrow I am going to wake up early and take the dog for a jog along the lake, watch the world wake up and get some writing done. The novella is fucked. I finally have some time to work on it. My body is sore from insufficient post-workout stretching and vigorous shower sex. Cheers, darlings.