3 minutes 25 seconds| Non-alcoholic inspiration.
I am not singing in Russian in this heavy metal homage. It is only more backwards-masking with a bit of auto-tune thrown in. By apperances, I started this opus on Halloween 10/31/11.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 7| A conversation ensues between Lucien and his cousin while they wait for the announcement of Christmas dinner. In it, they discuss the recent death of Lucien’s father, and his appearance in the son’s dreams:
“It’s always a sunny Saturday morning in my dreams,” Lucien continued, “yet Dad neither partakes of the family pancake breakfast nor watches Rocky and Bullwinkle with us kids. Somehow he and Mom are estranged, divorced, or separated. None of this explains his presence in the house. I’ve had similar dreams about my fraternal grandmother and her ambiguous state of affairs, as to whether she is recovering from a long illness, or has returned after a long absence. I have no idea how she occupies herself in these dreams many years after her death.”
The cousin raised her stick, and almost levitated with it. Her manner was usually folksy but, with Lucien, she spoke forthrightly. “Unlike reason, feelings do not differentiate between dreams and waking, or whether actors called to a stage or alive or dead. With age, a few realize the boundary dividing dreams from waking is provisional; and while the realm of dreams waxes, the waking realm wanes. It is the reverse of childhood, when you sprang from bed each day eager to drink in the world. Now you are reluctant to leave your bed and, eventually, like your mother, you will not leave it at all.”
“It’s one of life’s ironies,” Lucien supposed.
“It is transference of sand in an hourglass,” Emily pressed her analogy, “where the chamber of sleep, which was at first empty, fills with more detail than what is left to gather in your chamber of wakefulness. A debt is nearly repaid; and this is all one can say of it.”
“A debt...?” Lucien found the explanation quixotic, but on the whole true where the humdrum of adult life showed little of the imagination and variety of his dreams. Still, he complained, “If only I slept as well as you imagine.”
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