Dream

Here’s a dream from last night.

I’m in a warren of bookcases, piles of books, audio equipment, records, tapes, etc., in a private archive of words and sounds. I’m busy tidying things. It’s all very orderly, if eccentrically so. A young woman is looking through records disinterestedly. I pull our a heavy plastic record, shaped like a soft-edged triangle, and place it on a turntable. I’m not sure it will play, but I feel confident. The record produces sounds including mouth popping. The woman begins to nod listening. A man nearby begins to imitate the sounds. We all work together, as band mates and archivists.

In one room, I discover a glass case over an owl’s next below. I excitedly tell the others that there are baby owls in the nest. They discourage me from looking at the owls, as they’re covered in fungus. I return to find raccoons roaming around the case, and decide the leave that area alone.

A young man is searching for something specific. He doesn’t require assistance. I move around, rearranging materials to encourage his “serendipitous discovery” of sounds and words I find interesting. A number of others gather to talk and compare notes. I try to reach around them to open my private stash to offer for his perusal. I can’t reach to show him, so I indicate where he can find it.

Some of the recordings seem purely arbitrary but relate to the chance in art, as in Fluxus. I have a lot of material from a Czechoslovakian movement that we listen to in order to perform and keep the form alive. I play one record of words and sounds. One young woman gets up to dance. Two others join her. Their dance is utterly joyful and in tune with nonsense. We’re all very connected. 

I’m alone again, baking for a large group. I mix dry ingredients in a large bowl. I’m confidently playing with the recipe. I go back and forth to a garden for ingredients. There, I have a flower that is of interest to an older military man. I teach him about the flower’s properties. As I do, I play with the petals. Arranged on one side, the flower looks like a spider. On another, like a glove. Around the circumference, like a sun. The man is interested in what I know about the flower but not interested in these games; he’s very no nonsense.

I go back to baking. I realize I don’t have a pie shell. I don’t think I need one. I could make it. But I recall they’re readymade in stores, so I go to look for one. I’m barefoot in the store.