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Just before waking, I dreamt I was traveling through a downtown neighbourhood, buildings in ruins. A lone woman in a building (sort of deco/neoclassical bank-building style) whose entrance was now a vertical crack shouted something at me.
I was walking, thinking to myself “politics-formal politics-is granular”— and a bunch of stuff about why you have to start at the local level to influence things. I came to another building site where the whole superstructure was gone. The same woman asked me if I’d seen any squatters in it lately. Obviously no. She cackled something about how nice and quiet the neighbourhood was now, and how maybe the building would learn to be a good building and be allowed to have tenants again.
I’m afraid the best retort I could come up with was “fuck you, lady.” The past few years have made me much swearier.
I climbed across the building’s site— there was a deep crack in the ground and I approached with caution to look over the edge to see how deep it was. The crack had exposed a cliff face of what looked like cuneiform that went down into the ground.
“Do you have any silver paint?” Inside the crack, I think on a sort of scaffolding, there was a woman with short white hair and a hawklike profile, very dark eyes, who was painting a silk banner that hung down into the depths. I wondered how she managed but realized she must pull the sections of fabric up towards herself. The thin fabric was covered in a grid of little multicoloured squares and triangles and it seemed to me she’d have an easier time painting it if she used an embroidery hoop to hold the fabric taut.
I now remembered an earlier scene of the story in which the painter had attempted to kiss me, but I’d fled and she’d kissed a (male) police officer instead, leading to some kind of transference— she was using that power to make this banner, with protective but ruthless intent.
“Perhaps it’s better I kissed Officer [name],” she said to me. “The [name of ancient civilization we were dealing with] approved all sorts of couplings for pleasure; but for inward journeys, they were more conservative.” (Not the word she used, been trying to think of something not quite as slangy as “normie.”]
“And what happened to Officer Name’s mind?” I asked.
“There is something in there now. A substitute. The difference is hardly noticeable.”
“Then you’ll pardon me if I’m happy, too, that he was the one you kissed.”
I thought of offering to get her an embroidery hoop for the fabric, but i wasn’t sure if I should be helping her.
This dream was probably influenced by having watched the Dr Phibes movies back-to-back before bed.
I was walking, thinking to myself “politics-formal politics-is granular”— and a bunch of stuff about why you have to start at the local level to influence things. I came to another building site where the whole superstructure was gone. The same woman asked me if I’d seen any squatters in it lately. Obviously no. She cackled something about how nice and quiet the neighbourhood was now, and how maybe the building would learn to be a good building and be allowed to have tenants again.
I’m afraid the best retort I could come up with was “fuck you, lady.” The past few years have made me much swearier.
I climbed across the building’s site— there was a deep crack in the ground and I approached with caution to look over the edge to see how deep it was. The crack had exposed a cliff face of what looked like cuneiform that went down into the ground.
“Do you have any silver paint?” Inside the crack, I think on a sort of scaffolding, there was a woman with short white hair and a hawklike profile, very dark eyes, who was painting a silk banner that hung down into the depths. I wondered how she managed but realized she must pull the sections of fabric up towards herself. The thin fabric was covered in a grid of little multicoloured squares and triangles and it seemed to me she’d have an easier time painting it if she used an embroidery hoop to hold the fabric taut.
I now remembered an earlier scene of the story in which the painter had attempted to kiss me, but I’d fled and she’d kissed a (male) police officer instead, leading to some kind of transference— she was using that power to make this banner, with protective but ruthless intent.
“Perhaps it’s better I kissed Officer [name],” she said to me. “The [name of ancient civilization we were dealing with] approved all sorts of couplings for pleasure; but for inward journeys, they were more conservative.” (Not the word she used, been trying to think of something not quite as slangy as “normie.”]
“And what happened to Officer Name’s mind?” I asked.
“There is something in there now. A substitute. The difference is hardly noticeable.”
“Then you’ll pardon me if I’m happy, too, that he was the one you kissed.”
I thought of offering to get her an embroidery hoop for the fabric, but i wasn’t sure if I should be helping her.
This dream was probably influenced by having watched the Dr Phibes movies back-to-back before bed.
