A great soaking and thunderclapping storm this morning. I’ll see how long I last out here on the porch. It’s noisy, and poor Lance can’t take it. I have to dose him with xanax whenever there is a thunderstorm, and even then all he can do is hide and tremble. It’s a sad day, when drugs don’t get you through.
Okay, time for retreat. Notebook is soaked.
#450, c. 1862
Dreams — are well — but Waking’s better,
If One wake at Morn —
If One wake at Midnight — better —
Dreaming — of the Dawn —
Sweeter — the Surmising Robins —
Never gladdened Tree —
Than a Solid Dawn — confronting —
Leading to no Day —
I have had a hard time recalling my dreams lately. I know something is happening, a lot in fact. Then as soon as my eyes open, the scene evaporates. My subconscious is busy. I wonder, though, does it still count if I can’t bring the material up to the surface and make a clear narrative? Does the dream still fulfill its task of informing the psyche, if the content doesn’t survive into waking hours?
There is a middle-of-the-night quality of vision that seems more “awake” than simply not being asleep. The darkness and the hour cloak otherwise familiar surroundings in a way that seems alien only because it’s not visible in daylight. The darkness and the hour do not make our surroundings strange; these only reveal what the light can’t show. The dark side of the moon still exists, even though we can’t see it. That vast continent of rock moves in space and enacts its gravitational pull on us here on Earth, blocked from our sight. We are tempted to say that what we can’t see doesn’t matter, but we’d be wrong.