ðottir

everything
is
all sorts

      a cup of coffee is a dream
      a dried grain of rice, a dream
      a roundabout, a dream
      a cell phone, a dream
      a dream, a dream
      an escapade, a dream
      sixlittleducks, a dream
      the radio, a dream
      a diamond, a dream
      an argument, a reflection
      love, love
      a body, a temple
      a temple, a house for spirits

 

-Ásta Fanney Sigurðardóttir
“FOREVERNOON”

dreamzzz

My divorced parents both gave me blankets this year for Christmas. Last night I dreamt I was Elon Musk’s mistress. I loved him. We fled Ukraine together. With a few other people. Our pent-up anxiety over escaping was worthless after all — the guards at the border let our entourage through without fuss, saying: ~we’re not like the other countries.~ At first my friend was his mistress, but with more time spent, attraction grew. I remember his softness and smell, that he barely brushed his teeth but his breath was still somehow sweet even though it could also stink. Claire Boucher was even there sometimes, with her own entourage, picking up and dropping off babies. I felt her kindness was sincere. She had zero distaste towards me as E’s new lover. A position we all knew as fleeting as true. I rarely went to him, but he’d come to mine most nights. Mine being some adjacent room. Don’t recall anything graphic or inherently sexual about the dream. Emphasis on the effort we made to be together — the coming and going from each other. Before the whole affair, we were in some other estate, flying around high ceilings, hiding from something, preparing for some large event or move. There was a strong sense that someone was coming soon who would halt and change everything as we knew it.

*

(since cutting back booze last summer dreams’ve become more and more obscure and memorable. most bizarre of 2022: this guy I knew shoved a stick of dynamite into my mouth, woke mid-shriek / pre-explosion. some same-old recurrings: big waves about to crash, rushing to lock a door to keep an intruder out, flying away — feels just like breaststroke.)

fancies

As soon as I heard his voice, I felt as if a wind swept through my head. I let shoes be shoes, and it seemed to me that the distracted phase of mind I had just experienced dated from a long-vanished period, maybe a year or two back, and was about to be quietly effaced from my memory. I began to observe the old fellow.”

-Knut Hamsun
Hunger