and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

Sometimes when I wake up late at night, bladder full and complaining, I climb out of bed and stumble to the toilet, do my duty, and if I've had time to become accustomed to the light and I'm not particularly groggy, I grab the scissors and just slice away at nothing. I put them up close to my ear so I can hear the nice long strokes of the metal blades, biting at eachother with a hizzing huzzah. Then, short snappy snips; the dull clunk of the plastic handle brilliantly placed as a period on the end of each staccato sentence.

There is a dream in every sound; a place you can go. A park, some wild nightlife, a pristine white-sand beach covered with seashells, a thriving public market, a quiet, quiet, clear cloudless evening. These sounds are obvious, though. It is the off-beat sounds that produce the real fantasies - dreams of places you've never been and you're not even sure you want to even go there. The can opener, the scissors, the low burp of a bullfrog, a high pitched hiccup, the clank of a cd falling into a jukebox tray - juxtaposed against the backdrop of trees swishing in the dark against a gentle night breeze, leno on real low late at night swimming out of your neighbours open second-story window. A penny, rolling circles around it's final resting spot, faster-tighter-narrower until it's a rapid beat and *snap* - down it goes.

In these sounds are a million dreams waiting to happen and I want so badly to dream these little dreams. I want to know where the can opener will take me today, what new space the pfft-pfft-pfft of my neighbour's lawn sprinkler is going to show me. Into these sounds, like a swimmer into a pool, do I dive.