Walking on the moon, and under it; long talks with Floyd Laughren and rescuing his oddly crippled little daughter who so badly wanted to see him. Somehow, the next thing I knew, I was driving with my cousin Karen and me old mum, down gloriously beautiful (and steep! steep to put the streets of San Fran Cisco to shame!) streets in Montreal. My mother, once her usefulness as a guide to the great city of la belle province, somehow morphed into a lesbian friend of Karen's (they may or may not have been interested in one another) and we had lost the car. As so often in dream-logic, it simply was no longer there; we were on foot and desperate to find the Metro, as Karen couldn't bare the stench of the auto-route, buried below ground level.
But my favourite part was walking on the moon. Stark black and white, the horizon close enough you felt you could reach out and touch it, with sudden mountains rising from the flat plains - some surprising smooth, as if weathered, others (more properly, I noted in the dream, those on my right were jagged and untouched by weather. Both in any case had a beauty that was, simply, sublime - were I a painter, I might well try to reproduce the awe they gave to my dream-self.
I caught only a brief glimpse of the full Earth, as that image for some reason frightened my companion, who might have been Floyd, might have been Karen, or who might have morphed, the one into the other, during the course of our brief sojourn onto the surface of that oh so alien world.
My dreams have been remarkably vivid of late, perhaps since I took that hit of acid a couple of weeks back, but I think longer than that. In fact, I think they have "come to life", as it were, more or less since I realized I had been existing as an emotionally dead (or depressed) automaton for a very long time.
In any event, I have lately been waking regularly with that strangely disappointed thrill one gets as, eyes blinking owlishly in the morning light, when one recalls the intricate plots, fantastic situations, and knows they will soon evaporate like some mental mists in the heat of the morning sun.
I resent dreams for their ephemerality, but that is no doubt also a large part of their appeal. On those rare occasions when I have remembered them long enough to analyze form and structure, they most often simply made no sense.
Enough about dreams.
Today I am off to my physician for a physical. I suppose I'll mention, when she asks how I am, that I've been depressed, but I expect no pragmatic advice from her on that front. In truth, if I may conduct my own diagnosis and cure (and I may, since I am in fact so doing), things are going well enough.
I have broken my habitual patterns of drinking and doping. As for the latter, the nightly doses of cannabis have been almost entirely absent for quite a bit longer than a month. In fact, I went an entire month without any at all, then "relapsed" for a gram which last me a week and have been clean (as they say) for two or so weeks since then.
Strange how I almost never miss what had been so regular a companion.
The alcohol too, is no longer compulsory. Though I am still drinking more than I think healthy, I have done without nearly one week out of the past four and I feel cautiously confident in saying the habit of drinking is breaking, if not yet broken completely.
And yay for me.
And yay for morning pages. But enough for now.
I need to call my doctor's office and find out whether I am allowed to break my fast prior to my 2:00 o'clock appointment. I hope I am, as I now realize that I ate only one small meal yesterday and I am quite frankly famished right now.
Regardless, I need to work out, then sit down and polish the piece on the pusillanimous Ignatief, rather than let it molder like far too many pieces in the past few years, in my notebook.