I looked at Lizette. Her head was on the small pillow raised against the window; irregular lines of hair rested on her neck. The bus was behind schedule, and I wondered if Lizette was sleeping or just watching headlights breaking through falling snow. "Lizette," I said. "Liz." She didn't move. I touched her hair, and it was as soft as any snow. I was reading Stranger in a Strange Land, trying to decide if it was good literature. I once told Liz that I'd always felt like a stranger, but she would have none of it. "We're all strangers, Rick."
-----
The bus was nearly empty. We had the two seats behind the driver. Rick had wanted to fly, but I'd said there'd be romance in a long bus ride. I knew we'd grown apart, and I thought the ride might rekindle something. It's an old story--young lovers fall heavily for each other, then one of them perceives a change. Maybe I was prolonging things, though, and maybe he knew it. When he touched my hair near Omaha, his finger brushed my neck. I couldn't tell him how it felt--we had to reach South Bend for that to happen.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Perchance to Dream
At about 4:45 this morning, I woke up with this running through my head: My sleep has been troubled as of late. No, really: That sentence was in my fat head.
It's true, of course, though the troubles are not due to insomnia as usual, but to fairly odd, if not thematically and logistically consistent dreams: I am usually out in the mountains somewhere, and I am hiking alone. I am always lost, yet I always see but do not encounter friends and co-workers, though many of those people I have not encountered in many years. In each of these dreams I seem to be searching for something, but there are always physical barriers to my progress--a mountain, a canyon, a river. My wife says that perhaps something is missing from my life, and though I could speculate as to what, I'm not perceptive enough to speculate with confidence.
When I was a kid, and maybe I mentioned at some other point in this blog, I would wake up in the morning not just talking in my sleep, but actually writing books verbally. Talking aloud and writing books--go figure!
Not long ago I actually did start a new book, and it felt good to be writing something again. I am fairly void of original ideas these days, at least where fiction is concerned, so I'll take anything. Here's the first sentence of the new book:
Ay, there's the rub....
It's true, of course, though the troubles are not due to insomnia as usual, but to fairly odd, if not thematically and logistically consistent dreams: I am usually out in the mountains somewhere, and I am hiking alone. I am always lost, yet I always see but do not encounter friends and co-workers, though many of those people I have not encountered in many years. In each of these dreams I seem to be searching for something, but there are always physical barriers to my progress--a mountain, a canyon, a river. My wife says that perhaps something is missing from my life, and though I could speculate as to what, I'm not perceptive enough to speculate with confidence.
When I was a kid, and maybe I mentioned at some other point in this blog, I would wake up in the morning not just talking in my sleep, but actually writing books verbally. Talking aloud and writing books--go figure!
Not long ago I actually did start a new book, and it felt good to be writing something again. I am fairly void of original ideas these days, at least where fiction is concerned, so I'll take anything. Here's the first sentence of the new book:
I was once very fat.There's more after that--several hundred words, in fact, but they're not ready for display quite yet. I wonder what dreams may come tonight.
Ay, there's the rub....
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