Strange and endless dreams early this morning—cross-pollination of recent work and a Netflix binge. I was designing an image program / slideshow that was, in its entirety, regarding serial killers— when young, where lived, etc. Gruesome (both the content and the schedule), wake-in-a-sweat stuff. Why must I work in my sleep? Not RESTFUL! Followed by dreams of attempting to help my folks with a mad DIY job on the ‘house’ that’d gone way too far— i use quotes there because, for some reason, everything was shaking, trembling, as on a train or a bus; inexplicable upon waking. All around un-restful sleep, in the end, but interesting. “May you sleep in interesting times!”
Elsewhere, reading things from a couple of years ago, finding bits and bobs, reminders of life, of change. It reminded me, again, why I have this space and others for recording things. How much we forget or distort, in the elusive, waxy process of writing, and re-writing memory on the synapses. Thus the page, dusted off, can clarify some. Obviously all is written with internal editors at work over our shoulders, but recordings are, at the least, capable of capturing that one moment. As it felt, if not as it actually was. Which is all that’s required, really. There is no “how it in-fact, actually happened,” save in police reports; CSI records; the grisly photographs that can’t convey anything at all of what’s internal, of how things felt.
“The wound is the place where the light enters you.”
(If you’re lucky.)