"Weirdest. . . Dream . . . Ever"
For the purposes of this dream, Virginia Woolf died when a train she was riding caught fire and exploded; for some reason I think it was the 10.05 p.m. (In reality, she drowned herself in the Ouse River in 1941). My friend Becky and I were taking the same train, years later, but the possibility for explosion was the same. We decided to take the train anyway (for some reason I think it was "a thing Woolf scholars did"--but I am a Woolf scholar and Becky is not). We promised each other that if the train blew up, we'd die together. Lo & behold, the furnace engine got out of control and fire started to pour through the grate with tremendous heat (I could feel it in my dream). We turned our backs to the flame and held hands, and the fire consumed us. I was sure we had died.
There was a curtain of red, which slowly ebbed, and Becky & I were still there. We looked at each other. I saw that the skin on her face skin was white and tender, like new skin, and her facial hair had been singed off in places, but she was otherwise OK. I looked the same, as the mirror in a little room showed me. I told her not to touch the new skin. We moved out of this anteroom (with blue-green curtains) where we had discovered we were alive. We moved into a stage set of some kind, where only a few characters roamed. One was a Woolf scholar who had transgendered from male to female. I said "I know who you were." S/he was dressed like Sally Bowles in "Cabaret"--a top hat, tuxedo collar & fishnets--and had glossy auburn hair. I ran into a few other people, somehow related to this strange drama--there was a script we were following.
The strange, morbid lassitude of the dream never quite dissipated--the same kind of feeling I had when I sat through "Titanic" and the ship was sinking slowly, slowly . . . We had survived the singeing, but all was not quite right . . .
I usually like to present my dreams without comment, but I believe that my unconscious wants to make it clear I need to finish my sodding dissertation SOON!!
There was a curtain of red, which slowly ebbed, and Becky & I were still there. We looked at each other. I saw that the skin on her face skin was white and tender, like new skin, and her facial hair had been singed off in places, but she was otherwise OK. I looked the same, as the mirror in a little room showed me. I told her not to touch the new skin. We moved out of this anteroom (with blue-green curtains) where we had discovered we were alive. We moved into a stage set of some kind, where only a few characters roamed. One was a Woolf scholar who had transgendered from male to female. I said "I know who you were." S/he was dressed like Sally Bowles in "Cabaret"--a top hat, tuxedo collar & fishnets--and had glossy auburn hair. I ran into a few other people, somehow related to this strange drama--there was a script we were following.
The strange, morbid lassitude of the dream never quite dissipated--the same kind of feeling I had when I sat through "Titanic" and the ship was sinking slowly, slowly . . . We had survived the singeing, but all was not quite right . . .
I usually like to present my dreams without comment, but I believe that my unconscious wants to make it clear I need to finish my sodding dissertation SOON!!
Labels: burning, friendship, Virginia Woolf
