To Beagle Beethoven
They are human, all too human. Remarkable dreams from which one wakes up bewildered because they remind you of times yet to come, like imagination. To imagine is to remember the future, and dreams, too, remind us of what is yet to come. However, unlike most things imagined, dreams tend to dissipate. They make a ‘plop’ and dissolve into clouds of steam shortly after I wake up, frantically trying to capture and concretize what mere fractions of a second ago still seemed like crystal-clear imagery.
By ‘concretize,’ I mean putting something wordless into words. It’s much like collapsing the wave function in quantum mechanics: something initially in a superposition of states is reduced to a single state upon awakening. The box opens, and we see the cat, which was both dead and alive, lying fallow. Is this why narrative dreams often lack essence after all? An analyst might sometimes manage to pick out that elusive essence.
“Méér is beter!”, piepte Peter.
We were little rats, dressed in green, as in our everyday ookoi life. And like other rodents gorging themselves on table scraps after an extravagant banquet in the landlord’s parlour, we too feasted, on the musical excess spilling from all sides out of the speakers in a luxurious living room. Our bliss, however, was abruptly disturbed…
