Dreamt last night that my peephole was restored. As it stands, it’s all that it ever was: a hole through wood and the empty space between two panels. In my dream, bubbled glass, the widened foreheads of visitors walking around the hall remembering the small things, things the bare soles of their feet couldn’t feel, the possibility of the wood’s coldness beneath the rug. Put on, put on? Like caked pen tips used on the slant?
Posted by caroline at June 23, 2006 11:14 AMI'm sure there's some deep Freudian significance to this, combined with the womanly pain and all that...
Posted by: Edmorus at June 23, 2006 12:31 PMah yes, is it the ID and EGO narrative structure again?? I mean: Let's take The I out of this?? Thanks, Marlatt (again) Let's deconstruct just How Much my writing proves I want to fuck my father and maybe mother as well--depending on what gender/sexuality my writing represents That Day. :P
That comma and bubble glass--check it out, rearview it well.
Posted by: caroline at June 23, 2006 5:32 PM