The windows are open, the frogs are strumming and croaking in the background, the winds are blowing, and Loki is restive. He wants to continue to be a puppy and nest in the crook of my arm and sleep but he is a large dog now and puts out much body heat. When the water freezes and night are long it is a good thing to have Three Dog Night. But it is warm now, warmer at night then the days where this winter, and the canines begin their yearly migration to the floor. Bert is unable to get up on the bed without help and Sam accepts the blanket on the carpet with grace. But Lucas misses me, and throughout the night whines for me to let him up on the bed with me, but I cannot. He is condemned to the lower levels of the bedroom until the night air cools again, and it will be quite some time before this happens.
There is a front coming through late, and between the warm air, the frogs, the restive Loki, and the encounter with the Rattlesnake, my subconscious is cooking. I drift in and out of sleep, in and out of the dream world, and in and out of reality. I cannot tell which is which and truly, I do not try. I dream of groups of people who are there, gone, and there again, as if I am a time traveler sitting on one location as different ages pass, and people pass in time. They seem to know, and I realize to, that I am only passing through, or perhaps they are, too. I speak with a woman who has shoulder length dark hair, and she tries to tell me as much as she can, but I fade back into a world where there is a dog whining, and the wind blows hard. I hear music, but I know it’s of the other world, and I arch my back trying to see the clock, but it is gone now. That’s an odd feeling, to be awake enough to know to look for something but still so asleep it isn’t there yet. There’s an epiphany of sorts, a startling jolt as I realize I may be dreaming of a whining dog and a storm approaching, and that is enough to wake me, I think. But I do have to work tomorrow, or later today, so if this is a dream then I need the sleep.
Faces flash past me as if they were impressed upon playing cards dancing in the wind that might be blowing. An old friend of mine sings a very bad song, but he sings it well, and the moment in transfixed, crucified in time, nailed to my subconscious with willow stakes, and forever I will have a memory of something that never happened at all, and it comes to mind that I could call my old friend, have him sing this song, and… damn, that would make it worse, wouldn’t it? But then he is gone, and the song ends, and there is a woman explaining to me if I keep doing what I am doing I will lose my job and I have no idea what she is talking about. There are a group people singing and there is a woman running and there are a group of people singing but they are all dressed as businessmen in the 1950’s and it is grey.
The Loki Mutt wakes me up.
Lucas wants out, and this time I do find the clock and it is three in the morning, red number reflecting what my eyes will look like in a couple of hours. I let the dogs out and there is running and barking and I do realize sleep may be over for the night, but I drift. The leaves outside are echoing the noise of surf that I play all night long to help me sleep. There is a great commotion and I am walking down a street and I hear the noise of the surf and leaves, and I feel cold water on my feet and ankles but there is no water. There is music, very faint music, and as I walk I cannot hear it, but as I stand still it becomes more clear. There is a white fence that is made of wood and the music is not coming from behind the fence but from within the fence itself, as if each board were playing some part of a melody, or some odd instrument, and as the wind drew across it the fence played. It sounds like….
The wind sings as it runs through the screens in the windows and now the mutts want in, and in now. The heavens open up in a rainstorm that is an intense as it is brief. A flicker of lighting chases away the thunder, and the mutts want me to get up, and I do, at twenty after four. The cacophony of voices, of song, of feelings, of everything that was dream and reality pin me back onto the bed, and I try to piece it together, like I do every morning after intense dreaming, but there is nothing there but chaos and tiny bits of gold in the pan. My day is haunted by this, and I’m not all there, and I wonder how to explain this feeling in the written word. It’s hard to have a workaday life, and be a writer, because there is no one to explain this feeling to, and no way to explain the feeling, and no reason that anyone would understand. The days passes by me much like the dream, and I wonder now if my life is someone else’s dream, and if they will not awaken, and I will be gone, and they will go on with their day, and have these same feeling that I thought were mine, and will they wonder how to explain the shuffling of the dreams in the night?