Photo-Memories

I usually don't remember my dreams. Then again, I usually don't dream in black and white.

This one, I think. This one is different. It feels almost like a memory.

Not my memory, maybe. But someone's.

I assume they arrive by boat. (I never see the arrival itself, so this is just an educated guess.)

I assume boats because of the landing. We stand in front of four other row-boats, upturned on the sand river bank.

It looks like they've been here for awhile though. Absent footprints give us no clues.

Somehow, we travel. A door appears, or we appear, or a scene appears with us in front of the door.

It doesn't matter.

The door is huge. Dark wood, studded with darker iron-work.

The light stone of the wall seems to ripple and part in waves around it.

As if the stone were liquid.

As if the door had only just resurfaced.

As if it could return at any time.

The entrance reminds me a something far away.

Far away in time.

The door opens, and we fall down a light tunnel.

I suppose it would have been frightening, but the building's age still comforts through disorientation.

When the brightness clears, we seem to be inside a great gothic church.

The roof has gone. The pillars stretching up lend support to the skies.

A great circular opening looks down on us like an eye.

Like a portal.

Like an empty portal.

The space remembers something, but I think it's voice left when the sky came in.

There's a small house-building where an alter might go.

In front, collected water forms a silver mirror.

A telephone pole and it's string of wires runs from nowhere and back again.

As we approach the house

(We are drawn to it. Such is the manner of dreams.)

A white a black dog lifts it's head for a moment

Just a moment, though

The dog is tired of remembering, and returns soon to sleep.

The house-building seems more like a cabin as we approach.

Not particularly inviting, not particularly forboding.

It strikes me as secretive.

(Rule 457: All dream houses appearing in any way secretive, forboding, or frightening must be explored at once.)

So we go inside.

The disorientation of walking through doors envelopes me again, but it's not so flashy this time.

I realize that I'm not inside a cabin at all.

This is a chapel.

The floorboards creak to long ago feet.

There's that comforting, musty smell of all great classrooms and libraries.

And I know

(As one knows in dreams)

That we're in England now.

I can see a closed door at the back of the church.

(Rule 76: All dream doors, once in sight, must be opened.)

So we open the door.

If dust could have malicious intent, this dust would.

The black and white is colored with coffee and tea-stain dust brown.

Natuarally, we cough.

We squint.

We peer.

And finally, we stick our heads in the door and look.

Walls of books, three shelves high, covered in inches of grime.

I get the feeling they would stare back at us if they could.

I don't really understand why these books are here, but I remember to look down.

"Chained books" floats up beside my shoes.

(Rule 68: All locked objects found while dreaming must be explored.)

I don't remember approaching the books.

I don't even remember what they felt like, though I know we ran our hands across several spines,

Down links of chain,

Through layers of sooty brown.

I feel like I should remember this from before.

Like I've seen this place in color.

Maybe that's why we always know what to do.

Our fingers touch a link..there!

It crumbles, and a little book falls into our hands.

(The floor is in colored now, I notice. Wide planks, red stain, smoothed along the edges by decades.)

This is exciting, I realize. (Emotions are funny in dreams like that)

We place the book on the floor (its binding seems red as well)

And the pages flip open.

The disorientation comes again, and the book sinks through a quicksand square of floor.

It leaves behind a hole.

A portal.

Here is the secret that's been hiding!

Here is what the eye can never remember!

Somewhere, an elderly dog twitches his ears and sits up.

Through the opening comes a stream of blue-green light.

It sparkles, it shimmers and dances,

Dances like the butterflies now flitting in the water light.

They escape and light the room with color,

Blue reflecting off red hardwood.

It's like watching music; the smell is springtime and ozone.

And if we ever tear our eyes away from the magic of this memory,

We would see three brightly painted figurines.

Two circus clowns, and thier horse.

These, I know. These, I know don't belong here in this memory.

These things are mine.

(Rule 1: You always wake up at the interesting part.)