The place of my dreams
Jul. 16th, 2006 11:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pjthompsonA night of odd dreams. Since it was the first I slept without assistance of NyQuil, I can't blame it on drugs.
I dreamed that I was sleeping, and outside my open window I heard the little boys from across the fence climb over the wall and go running-shouting along the narrow greensward between this house and the next. I somehow had the impression they were playing hide and seek and their older brother was It.
I pulled back the curtains to yell at them for making noise so early and waking me up, but I looked out not at the current greensward but at the very narrow alley of overgrown green and morning glory vines behind the house I grew up in, my house of first memories. The boys laughed as they ran, not even noticing me, and wore miniature band uniforms from Venice High School (my alma mater). I somehow flashed on the knowledge that it was Columbus Day (!) and they were marching later in a parade. I was so amazed I forgot to yell.
Of course, the boys who live across the fence of the current home are actually teenagers. But sometimes they act like little boys, making the maximum amount of noise they can on weeknights until their mother comes out and yells at them. *shrug*
This place that I grew up in is one I frequently go back to in dreams. I think it must represent some lost world to me, or a childhood that I'm always searching for but never finding. It represents some kind of ideal, anyway, a place of sanctuary. It was a ramshackle hovel—I'm not exaggerating—a house composed of four beach cabins strung together with a makeshift kitchen slapped on the back. It had four front doors as a consequence, though only one we used as a real front door, and it perpetually groaned under the weight of the years. But it had an enormous yard, a priceless garden thanks to my dad, and lots of odd nooks and crannies both inside and out. Places where a kid could hide out and dream magnificent daydreams.
And it is the place of my dreams. The place of recapturing...something. That always illusive something. I wasn't always happy there, but parts of that dishabille old place were true sanctuaries. Perhaps, because it succumbed to the wrecking crew years ago and I can't go home again in reality, I return there in sleep.
I dreamed that I was sleeping, and outside my open window I heard the little boys from across the fence climb over the wall and go running-shouting along the narrow greensward between this house and the next. I somehow had the impression they were playing hide and seek and their older brother was It.
I pulled back the curtains to yell at them for making noise so early and waking me up, but I looked out not at the current greensward but at the very narrow alley of overgrown green and morning glory vines behind the house I grew up in, my house of first memories. The boys laughed as they ran, not even noticing me, and wore miniature band uniforms from Venice High School (my alma mater). I somehow flashed on the knowledge that it was Columbus Day (!) and they were marching later in a parade. I was so amazed I forgot to yell.
Of course, the boys who live across the fence of the current home are actually teenagers. But sometimes they act like little boys, making the maximum amount of noise they can on weeknights until their mother comes out and yells at them. *shrug*
This place that I grew up in is one I frequently go back to in dreams. I think it must represent some lost world to me, or a childhood that I'm always searching for but never finding. It represents some kind of ideal, anyway, a place of sanctuary. It was a ramshackle hovel—I'm not exaggerating—a house composed of four beach cabins strung together with a makeshift kitchen slapped on the back. It had four front doors as a consequence, though only one we used as a real front door, and it perpetually groaned under the weight of the years. But it had an enormous yard, a priceless garden thanks to my dad, and lots of odd nooks and crannies both inside and out. Places where a kid could hide out and dream magnificent daydreams.
And it is the place of my dreams. The place of recapturing...something. That always illusive something. I wasn't always happy there, but parts of that dishabille old place were true sanctuaries. Perhaps, because it succumbed to the wrecking crew years ago and I can't go home again in reality, I return there in sleep.
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Date: 2006-07-18 05:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-18 05:24 pm (UTC)http://pjthompson.livejournal.com/104917.html#cutid1
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Date: 2006-07-19 05:27 am (UTC)Beautifully written.
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Date: 2006-07-19 07:04 pm (UTC)