Wednesday, September 10, 2008

i will bury my dream under your fig tree

I am a firm believer in the notion that dreams are meaningful. The problem is that I rarely remember my own dreams, and when I do I can't make any sense of them.

Last night I had a dream that while cleaning out a closet in my room in the house where I grew up, I came across a few shirts, of which it was aware to me, in a manner typical to dream life where one possesses a certain knowledge of something without any grounds, that they once belonged to Sylvia Plath.

They were men's shirts, mind you, and I recall being intoxicated at the mere sight of them. They were very 1960s looking, and I had every intention of wearing them routinely, if only to have something interesting to say in passing conversation.

But one of them, the one the farthest back; white with red patterns in what seemed like the shape of eagles, though the forms never fully took shape but stood out as if only visible in my periphery, gave rise to an intense sensation of foreboding. Inside the front pocket of this particular shirt I found a photograph. It was a profile shot of Sylvia Plath and some unknown man facing each other on a desolate and gray beach, arms straight at their sides and faces completely expressionless. The photograph was worn, and torn at the edges, and felt brittle in my fingers.

In the photograph it was the man who was wearing the white-with-red-pattern shirt, but, and this is the strangest part of the dream, I was acutely aware that this was the shirt Ms. Plath was wearing when she committed suicide. I did not question why it was in my closet, I merely shuddered and returned the photograph, walked away, and felt fear rise in my spine with each step.

So if anyone feels they are gifted at interpreting dreams, I'd love to know what that was all about.

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