A few notes on a dream.

I should preface this by saying I have a sleep addiction. For a period when I was growing up, I would regularly sleep the morning away, wrapped up in complex, vivid, sensational dreams.  My late grandmother was in my dream this morning, for a third day in a row. As were kittens, flying and of course, my love. This dream started en media res – that is, I did not dream about conceiving the dream, although I was very much aware of my role as director. Because the dream is fleeting as I sit here eyes open in the sunlight, I cannot be as precise as I would like to be (in fact, towards the end of the dream, I dreamt I was telling my mother about the dream in such articulate detail) but I proceed anyway because the whole thing was so fantastic and so real feeling. There were a bunch of young, good-looking people, dressed in some version of Edwardian attire (some with feathery bonnets) who met for lunch parties, in the hull of shipwrecks and in modern (21^st-century life) by traversing the planet, mostly in flight (though those who did not have a strong enough will to fly would plummet, albeit at a braked speed, though heart escalating with the rise in velocity, into the water, and would not die but would have to swim the length of the distance to the next terrain. My first attempt at flying (because I, too, was in this dream, but not as a character, per se, but rather as myself the director, whose presence I could not see but only feel) landed me into the water, but gradually I learned to believe in my capacity to fly, or to walk across the water, and reach the other side without plunging in. The whole objective of this dream-life seemed to be meeting for lunches with friends and relatives in between cataclysmic natural disasters, which each of us, through the power of flight, could respond to. And this was the pattern of life.