After the Ravens

So it’s been a while.  Recovering from late night raven attacks, even with the assistance of cinnamon Altoids, takes time.  Today, instead of insomnia, I’m up entirely too early for a Saturday.  I have been out of bed for an hour.  It’s 8:10.  That’s just wrong.  To be fair, I didn’t sleep all that well.  It was too warm, and then I had this dream about a poetry festival.

The festival was apparently taking place somewhere on the campus of Shaw University, which is mere blocks from where I work.  And yet I was having trouble figuring out how to get there.  I was attempting to take a bus but had no idea which bus, and when I asked an old woman at a bus stop, she looked at me like I was stupid and asked me why I didn’t just walk.  I ended up driving there.  At least I got there.  I got into the auditorium, put my name on a list to read, and sat down to wait my turn.  Imagine my shock when I ending up in the second slot instead of much further down the list.  Slots were skipped over as poets signed up to read, so everyone got moved up.  So the first reader read.  The auditorium was buzzing with conversation; no one was paying attention to her.  Well.  Not no one.  I was.  But I couldn’t hear her over the babble.  And she had a microphone.  When she was done, I asked if I could read her poem because I didn’t hear her.  Before I could get my hands on a copy, it was my turn.  And I didn’t take kindly to the continued non-attention.  I busted out my stage voice.  With that and the microphone, I knew the assholes in the audience could hear me.  I babbled about TS Eliot and the image of the hollow man in a particular poem and how I was drawn to that image and how it had something (maybe) to do with the poem I was going to read if only people would shut the fuck up and listen to me.  My poem, apparently entitled Empty Man, may or may not have had any relation to Eliot’s hollow man.  I never read it.  And this being a dream, I don’t recall any lines from the poem.  I’m not sure there was a poem on the paper I was holding.  Eventually, I stopped trying to read the poem.  Someone, a tall, round-ish dude with long hair (Meatloaf???), joined me at the mic, and we improvised some poetry/comedy/avant garde crap.  No one was listening, so why the hell not.  And then some band showed up and took over the festival (not that the audience paid them any more attention than the poets), and I left with Meatloaf and some girl who complained bitterly about how the festival had gone downhill.  I gave her my card and suggested we start something new.

I don’t care much for the practice of interpreting dreams because I don’t believe dreams have just one function.  I do, however, think that paying attention to dreams and understanding the mental states/thoughts that conjure the images can be useful.  I can tell you exactly what’s been on my mind that drove that dream.  I can’t tell you with any certainty why Meatloaf might have been in my dream other than the fact that Meatloaf is a performer firmly lodged in my long term memory and the dream needed to fill that spot with someone.

So.  Aside from fucked up poetry festival dreams, there’s not much to share.  I didn’t care for the month of February.  Now that it’s March, things might be better.  In like a roaring meat-eating pissed off LION.  Rwar.

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