I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to impress someone I didn’t know.
As I lay in my bed, trying to capture the dream before it flew away, reality intruded and I snorted ruefully to myself thinking, why do I feel the need to impress a character in a book?
It’s funny how our brains work.
The dream had been richly detailed and I can still see bits of it but the story began to fade and though I wrote this in my head while I was still in bed, it was gone by the time I boiled the kettle for coffee.
It would take too long to give all the back story, all the detail I can remember and I know how he came to be in my head, this Alex Thomas but how he became enmeshed in my subconscious, in the intricate mystery of the last two years, I can only guess. With each chapter, it seemed there was one more characteristic, situation or dialogue that felt like it had been lifted straight from my memories…
He (Alex) is dark, sardonic, smokes, writes, is both in awe of and disdainful of me by turns. Not me exactly but what he thinks I have, thinks I am. Leftover airs and graces from a family that retains only the name on this branch. ~ I hate when people look at what I’ve cobbled back together from the ruins he left me and say things like, “Must be nice” in that sneering tone with a side of jealousy. As if rebuilding my life took something from them, or like it isn’t hard scratching by alone. ~ He created stories for her, they wrote together in bed . He was an orphan, “maybe an Indian orphan” – not PC but of the times in the book and that’s what we call ourselves anyway… and though I didn’t hear that part until chapter 32 or so… the comparison made was uncanny. How orphans never really fit and are so desperate to have and keep a family of their own. He did something illegal and went into hiding… . He died while he and she were apart, on “a break”, and with all the unresolved feelings that go with that. He said he’d never loved anyone the way he loved her…
I woke up wanting to capture those thoughts that you just know have all the answers, give the context, have all the right moves mapped out because finally, there were answers and it felt somehow like everything would be all right. That and… I could feel him so close. One foot on my front doorstep, his face half-turned away, his posture anticipating the opening of my door. Here to deliver those answers.
Anyway. They somehow got mixed up in my dreams last night, Alex and Peter. One real, one a work of fiction but then… Peter was his own best work of fiction so maybe… Maybe it wasn’t so strange after all.
And maybe, just maybe; there are endings that aren’t exactly happy but can bring equanimity.
11 January 2015
Currently reading “The Blind Assassin” by Margaret Atwood