Why can’t I take a little black and white composition notebook into my dreams? That way I won’t forget turning into a giant barred owl and swooping through town, grabbing up the folks that I like most of all in my talons. I’d know at the very least where I took them, what I gave them to eat (surely not regurgitated mice or other typical owl fare), what we did in the nest. Was my nest soft and full of feathers? Was it sharp with bent willow?
I don’t get to know. I have no way of recording the details while I’m walking through my dreams, of course. I used to keep a notebook by my bed, and as I woke I would groggily scribble what details I remembered and then look up what I could in a dream dictionary. But what I remembered were only the shadows of what flights I took, of elevators to space and fields that rolled into rivers. Of fairies with Danielle Radcliffe heads (?!) and monarch wings. Of vampires draped in black capes with their arms crossed like sleeping bats. Of villages with candles in the windows and warm women moving softly inside, their shadows swimming past as they put pumpkin bread in stone ovens.
Just a little bit, really. Just a tiny bit before the doors shut and I’m shut out of my own subconscious. Maybe one day, when I’m a highly evolved being of some sort, long after this life is done, I’ll be able to live that way. Or something. Lately I’m not myself in my dreams, and sometimes I’m not even a person. I’m an owl, I’m a spirit in the wind watching narratives unfold. Like watching a play that’s vaguely familiar, only the plot twists and turns come as mysterious surprises. Ever have a dream like that?