I woke up this morning many times, to the music on the radio, to the closing fade of my dreams, to the jackhammer outside, and each time was soft and wonderful, and each time I wanted to return to the dream I was having.
Finally woke up, for the last time, for I can sleep through jackhammers, when the song "11:11" by Rufus Wainwright ended. I was having a dream about a public performance piece in which a guy was riding a bicycle decorated like a stylized moustachioed bus down this narrow street. The street was not real, but in my dream it was a main narrow throughfare in Dream-Cambridge. Dream-Cambridge is a familiar set; it's not anything like the actual Cambridge, but I have been there a number of times in my sleep. It's sort of like if you mixed Central Square with the East Village in New York.
So this performance art bicycle - I wish I could draw it for you - was going down a path to the road and music was playing: it was the tune of "11:11" but the words were about the Number 11 bus - "Rode it this morning - Bus number 11 - It was a bus and a subway train - an institution for neighbors and friends - It was our line - the 11 bus". There had, it seemed, been a combination streetcar-bus that had for years run along this particular street and had been integral to the character of the neighborhood, which was all tall brick buildings and cafes and little markets and washing lines. Mass transit rearrangements and budget cuts had made the Number 11 redundant, and this guy was commemorating its passing on his forlorn but lovingly-painted bicycle.
I looked at the streetcar track and began to cry. I wept inconsolably in my dream, my face in my hands and my shopping bags on the pavement, as the bicycle went up and down the street. I thought, I have to tell Tilda about this, and Brand Avenue and Brookburg too, because they would appreciate how heartbreaking this is. But by the time I get home with my shopping bags and put them away the moment will have passed and my sorrow will have passed and I won't be able to tell them what this means.
One of those dreams which leave a patina over the rest of the day. The ice cream truck reminded me of the Number 11 bus this afternoon. I keep forgetting it's not real.
Finally woke up, for the last time, for I can sleep through jackhammers, when the song "11:11" by Rufus Wainwright ended. I was having a dream about a public performance piece in which a guy was riding a bicycle decorated like a stylized moustachioed bus down this narrow street. The street was not real, but in my dream it was a main narrow throughfare in Dream-Cambridge. Dream-Cambridge is a familiar set; it's not anything like the actual Cambridge, but I have been there a number of times in my sleep. It's sort of like if you mixed Central Square with the East Village in New York.
So this performance art bicycle - I wish I could draw it for you - was going down a path to the road and music was playing: it was the tune of "11:11" but the words were about the Number 11 bus - "Rode it this morning - Bus number 11 - It was a bus and a subway train - an institution for neighbors and friends - It was our line - the 11 bus". There had, it seemed, been a combination streetcar-bus that had for years run along this particular street and had been integral to the character of the neighborhood, which was all tall brick buildings and cafes and little markets and washing lines. Mass transit rearrangements and budget cuts had made the Number 11 redundant, and this guy was commemorating its passing on his forlorn but lovingly-painted bicycle.
I looked at the streetcar track and began to cry. I wept inconsolably in my dream, my face in my hands and my shopping bags on the pavement, as the bicycle went up and down the street. I thought, I have to tell Tilda about this, and Brand Avenue and Brookburg too, because they would appreciate how heartbreaking this is. But by the time I get home with my shopping bags and put them away the moment will have passed and my sorrow will have passed and I won't be able to tell them what this means.
One of those dreams which leave a patina over the rest of the day. The ice cream truck reminded me of the Number 11 bus this afternoon. I keep forgetting it's not real.
posted by Joolya at
4:04 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home