12 June 2009


Last night (which is to say, the night of June 10), I had a dream about Mr. Fallen.  This surprised me considerably, as did the content of the dream.

We were sitting in a bar - not a pub, but a bar, like the bar in an English college.  He looked nothing like himself, nor like anyone else I know, but he was himself.  We were having a conversation.  Either it was one of those awkward "we're being friends!" conversations, or it was just a regular conversation, but in any case I did not want to be there, doing that.  I think, actually, it must have been one of those "we're being friends!" conversations, subgenre "we're being friends having a civilised talk about why our entanglement ended," because the only actual piece of interaction I remember is that, in response to something he said, I suddenly snapped, "Well, I certainly didn't break up with a woman for no reason!"

Strange dream.  I suppose I had it because I recently found out we're both going to be at a conference later this year, and I've been thinking about that lately.  

It made me remember, though, that back when I applied to the conference, when I was much more sorrowful and hence much more bitter, I did have a recurring daydream that he and I would go to the pub for just such a civilised conversation and that I, filled with disguised rage and woundedness, would go up to the bar and ask for a pint of red wine.  In this quite elaborate daydream, the barman would be puzzled and protest, but I would insist.  I would then take this pint back to the table and upend it over Mr. Fallen's head.  Red wine stains, and in my daydream his clothing (of which he has very little, I believe) was irretrievably ruined.

Actually, maybe this dream was some sort of distilled version of that daydream...

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