This morning I had to pull the shade more or less all the way down, lest my head exploded from the sun’s bore. It’s that sunny and it’s that late in the morning, too. The plus side of in effect predawn meditation followed by writing (I say “in effect” because often it wasn’t actually predawn but rather a case of the sun simply not being high enough past tree tops, or of morning mists still creating a diffusing layer at ocean level on the horizon past the wooded bits that lie between me and it) was not getting my brains boiled. The minus side was fewer dreams remembered since I seem to go into more active REM sleep if I don’t have to get up so early. It’s a bit uncanny how easily I’ve fallen back into my habit of midnight reading, late-ish bedtimes (sleep, I mean), and rising.
The dreams… Last night – or rather: this morning – I dreamt (and I swear it was a rerun, I dreamt this before) that I was walking past the M. house on A-Ave., except it was on the corner of L.-St. and on the other (“wrong”) side of the street, and a moving van parked on the curb was taking their stuff away. Nice brown furniture, including two matching chests. (The decorators will tell you that brown furniture is not in vogue currently.) Interesting, that it was a “pair” of matching “chests.” One on each side of the front door, on the porch. The front door: a vaginal opening? Then the movers appeared from the inside of the house and added another item to the collection on the porch: another dresser, this one a highboy-ish type of thing, not really a highboy, but not quite as low as a regular dresser, and not as low as the “chesty” pair – quite feminine, really – already out there. I could tell that bolted to its top was a wood framed diaper changing bassinet, like the kind I’d had made up (except I hadn’t stained it to match the dresser, nor bolted / screwed it in place). Unlike my old, long-gone add-on, this one was part of the furniture, and I knew in my dream that I had given the idea to R. When that piece appeared, I felt tears in my eyes: end of an era kind of emotion. Finality.
Then M. and R. appeared somewhere on the rather vast lawn in front of their house (which in real life has no lawn at all, as it abuts the sidewalk with a tiny strip of “Beacon Hill garden”), and while R. seemed to evaporate rather quickly (I did want to talk to her), it was M. who saw me wave and who came over. I was with A., incidentally (or not?). I conveyed both my surprise and sadness at their move, which seemed sudden and out of the blue. I cried a little over the diaper-changing dresser, and so did he. He then offered us a ride (not sure why) (or where to) (to save me a bit of a hike, but why?) and we got into this old, brown-colored (vintage, actually, antique as in valuable, not merely old) car. It reminded me of a Mustang or similar sporty car, but it was very long, and in particular very narrow (which, I guess, accentuated its length). As M. drove and I enquired why the move, he said “they” had approved construction of highrises right on their block, that they (the Ms) were appalled, and that it wasn’t their neighborhood anymore, …and that they had no idea where they were moving. I expressed surprise (and incredulity) about the highrise nonsense, but M. had all sorts of facts – the proposed development even had a name.
Meanwhile, we were driving in a landscape far removed from L.-St. or anything in B.: it looked more like Victoria’s Chinatown, with extremely narrow roads, alleys, and hidden courtyards – which this car could magically maneuver in and out of because it had the ability to become as narrow as 10″ or so, plus “scrape” through passages (and even past another parked car) without damaging anything. Something to do with a seemingly magical silver trim running the length of the chassis. M. deposited us in a courtyard (which we hadn’t really chosen as our destination). This is where the parked car was, which he miraculously maneuvered past in practically a 90º angle – and also exited past. A. and I then walked to an intersection where a tiny 3′ high sapling both sprouted through and had been deliberately planted in basically a crack in the pavement. It was difficult not to run into it, or for cars not to run over it. Totally out of place, obviously. The location was downscale urban (tree grows in [old, pre-gentrification] Brooklyn?) and there were street kids owning their turf, or fighting over it, I believe. The dream pretty much ended – or fizzled – there. Does it imply a reconsideration of staying in B.? So confusing.
In other news: last night W. and I went to the Salem Atheneum to hear a talk by Tamara Thornton on Nathaniel Bowditch. Navigator, scientist, and mathematician, yes. But perhaps his greatest renown should be for his business acumen (rags to riches). He’s the guy who, in America at least, was responsible for the whole ordering system we now take for granted in the modern office, and in life: filing, numbering of invoices and accounts, an impersonal and systematic, bureaucratic treatment of all transactions, whether they’re from Joe Blow or Sally Onhigh. Fascinating.
We met Z. there, had a chance to talk after the presentation about Trump and whether gaslighting is an appropriate description of what he does.