My House But Not My House.

April 26, 2010 § 1 Comment

Last night I dreamed I made a bomb that looked like a fire detector & worked like a mousetrap.  You’d put the dynamite inside it like a battery & then wind it around until it clicked, & once it clicked there was no going back.  In the early part of the dream I realized I’d set the bomb without considering I was in a large-collateral-damage area—the street, for instance—&  so ran around like crazy looking for a field.  One of the places I looked for a field was in a Space Museum, full of stars & shit, & there was no field.  After much desperate pleading with a school bus driver lady, I hitched a ride on her school bus to find a field.  I was bumping along on the school bus & still racing against the clock when I realized the dynamite had fallen out of the bomb in my frantic attempts to find it a field to go off in & I had to find the dynamite quick before it blew up, since I had decided it could work independently of the bomb itself, & would.  Suddenly, R. appeared, all Deus Ex Machina, & said he’d found my missing dynamite in the Space Museum, & had handed it over to the security guard behind the desk who, of course, having worked for years at the Space Museum, knew exactly what to do with it.

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§ One Response to My House But Not My House.

  • AMy P says:

    This is very interesting. I like the way your dreaming self is so acutely sensitive to different meanings of the same word.

    What if instead of a musem of space (with stars) it was a museum of space (as in what is sculpted with materials used in architecture and/or words in a poem)

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