Sometimes, I feel like rolling myself into a dark corner or underneath some heavy appliance and gather dirt or cuddle with the dust bunnies for the rest of my life.

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Dream-o-logue 19112014 – 21112014

Three nights, three different dreams.

19112014

I dreamt of a baked chestnut peddlar. The first of his kind in this tropical country. I met him on the corner of a street somewhere in Pulomas area. The area I frequently walked through as a grade schooler. A place previously occupied by the rich with houses that looked as if trying to compete each other in size and in shape, one after the other. But now this area has been partly abandoned by the anual floods that come because of some greedy official selling off the water reception land and allowing an apartment to be built upon it. An apartment that hardly has any residents except for ghosts and misguided spirits.

The chestnut peddlar was already famous. But stil he preferred selling his chestnuts on that specific corner, beneath an ornamental palm tree. He was proud of his profession, he would answer any question but refused to share where he got the chestnuts.

20112014

I intentionally watched a drama featuring Ayano Go before going to bed. A trick to be able to meet him in my dreams. A trick that never actually worked before. But to my surprise, worked this time.

We were on a bus. He was sitting in front of me with another Japanese actress. We were a group of six, going somewhere. Engaged in a conversation I can’t recall what it was about. I felt I was in a daze just having him in such close counters. Haha.

21112014

A wedding. A white wedding. The bride and groom and their parents were wearing white tinted with turqoise. Then a little boy, wearing a white shirt, black bow tie and black trousers kept fooling around in front of the camera as I was trying to take a commemoration photograph of the newlyweds.

The little boy was pulling off such hilarious poses, my lense focus averted to him. Making the bride and groom as his background.

The little boy had curly hair, fair skin and a huge grin. He was about three.

And I was secretly hoping that he was a part of me.

Dream-o-logue. Between 18112014 – 19112014

It was an unruly classroom full of high school kids. I was one of them. Sitting in front of me on the floor was Marina a close friend (in real life her name is Marini, well I guess I can be forgetful in my dreams too). It was supposed to be a briefing of some sort. The first day of the 11th grade merging with a foreign country’s 11th grade. We were forming groups, getting acquainted with one another. Checking out prospects as most puberty-ridden adolescents do.

The wall was chocolate milk brown. I could see (and hear) amidst the noise, a gang of rowdy boys occupying a desk and some seats gathered around it. One of them, the loudest one, kept stealing glances at my friend. I caught his gaze and he was saved by one of his friends nudging him back into their conversation.

I felt I was subconciously filtering the noise. The thing Marina just told me, split my sense of being. One part was being in the excitement of meeting foreign people, making new friends, and being a part of the international society. One part was devastated. How could she be giggling and laughing right after telling me such a thing?

Just before the teacher quieted down the class, Marina disappeared. She went to fix the top button of her shirt that she just realized was missing. No wonder the boys were staring.

The teacher was talking about something but I was busy fogging the window with my breath and writing something on it 4 letters. Just when I finished writing, the rowdy boy I caught looking at my friend cracked a joke. Everybody laughed, except for me, sitting quietly behind my filter. The word I wrote was: CYST.

With the teacher gone, came back the noise. I was still safe in my own quiet world. Until someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around and a foreign boy. Unlike the others, I couldn’t pinpoint his race. His skin was a lighter tone compared to the chocolate milk walls. He had slanted eyes, his hair was cut so short it was barely there; or was it just beginning to grow after being shaved all off. I guessed he was Afro-Caucasian with a hint of Asian. His features were somewhat ‘elf’ ishly soft and beautiful, but his square jaw saved him his masculinity. My jaw on the other hand, must have dropped.

I automatically scanned his background in my head. An ability the human beings in my dream were already capable of. He was one of the youngest war journalist on the planet. His reports covered Afghanistan, China, Libya, etc. He was agile and nimble; able to take incredible shots without getting shot.

His mouth was wording things at me, but my filter kept blocking them. I was trying so hard to hear him but couldn’t.

And at that, I woke up.

 

 

Random Page: 96. Winter Journal by Paul Auster

20A. 300 Eighth Avenue, Apartment 1-I; Brooklyn. A one-room studio on the ground floor of a six-story apartment building, located in the back, with a view of an air shaft and a brick wall. Larger than the maid’s room on the rue du Louvre, less than half the size of the Varick Street hovel, but equipped with a toilet and bath as well as various kitchen appliances built into one of the walls: sink, stove, and minibar fridge, which you rarely bothered to use, since this was a space for work and not for living (or eating). A desk, a chair, a metal bookcase, and a couple of storage cabinets; a bare bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling; an air conditioner in one of the windows, which you would turn on when you arrived in the morning to filter out noises from the building (COOL in summer; FAN in winter). Spartan surroundings, yes, but surroundings have never been of any importance as far as your work is concerned, since the only space you occupy when you write your books is the page in front of your nose, and the room in which you are sitting, the various rooms in which you have sat these forty-plus years, are all but invisible to you as you push your pen across the page of your notebook or transcribe what you have written onto a clean page with your typewriter, the same machine you have been using since your return from France in 1974, an Olympia portable you bought secondhand from a friend for forty dollars–a still functioning relic that was built in a West German factory more than half a century ago and will no doubt go on functioning long after you are dead. The number of your studio apartment pleased you for its symbolic aptness. 1-I, meaning the single self, the lone person sequestered in that bunker of a room for seven or eight hours a day, a silent man cut off from the rest of the world, day after day sitting at his desk for no other purpose than to explore the interior of his own head.