Waking Finnegan

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our whole life is rounded with a sleep” ~ Shakespeare

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Location: zurich, Switzerland

Sunday, December 05, 2004

December 5, 2004


Long chain of bloodied beads slowly popping out--bloop, bloop--like a big leaky faucet--plopp plopp--from a freshly cut hank of meat--red-flecked like exotic bird eggs but not so fragile. Close-up they are hard and pearlescent-- emerging one by one like a skein of new-born albinos.

I try to rid myself of this image by staring somewhat blankly through the rain-flecked window--suddenly aware of my gaze shifting autofocus-like between the mottled pane and the creeping vines growing towards a shuttered window across the street and looking like it wants to get in.

I'm drawn to both but can't see them at the same time. Not like the deep focus of a wide angle lens. I no longer fight this and instead let my eyes untether. Instead I focus on the space between. Drifting space. Optic doldrums.

But the leaking sound persists. I stand up quickly to distract myself from it and get a head-rush with spangled electrons spinning in the dark zone behind my head. I lose my balance and fall with no legs. There is no floor. I'm in a bed. The book I'd lain next to me before drifting off is open to an illustration of childbirth. I begin looking at it closely. It seems lit up somehow. Not right for a book and the dark room. I look even closer at the head of the emerging baby, and it suddenly moves. I jump away from the bolt of shock and knock over the lamp. There is something on the floor touching my bare feet. I reflexively kick at it and realize it's something animal. My heart races and I half wake up.

Looking around the room with bad eyesight. Damp sheets.

Turn on the lamp and notice that a spider has been building his web while I sleep. A bug trap. A dream tap?


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