Mouth dream 7/20/14
Wake up having had a dream about my mouth being endless half my face or more than half my face is sky and cloud and trees and nature more than half my face is projection
I had a dream last night that I didn’t know who my family was. In fact, everyone’s families were confused, overlapping, misdirected, misidentified. I introduced Pascal’s parents to my parents. His parents were French-speaking Canadians from Montreal. My parents were Chinese, yet French-speaking. In another version, both sets of parents belonged to him, and I had just met his mother who wanted to return to China because her business had been burned to the ground. She was sick of trying to make a life for herself here. She said I should come to the East sometime. I told her that I’d been to Taiwan many years ago. She said China was different.
Everyone’s homes had been set on fire. My childhood friend wanted to know if I was going back to my charred house and, if I was, could I get a chair for her that she liked? I didn’t think there was anything left. She wanted the Eames chair that belonged to my grandparents; I wanted to see if any of the books or papers were salvageable. I realized the loss of my books and writing would be the hardest thing to replace, that I could never remember everything that I’d owned.
A different childhood, in real life: a friend’s mother has just died. I’ve called to make a donation for the funeral. I realize that my dream is an indication of the confusion of families. There was a time when I felt myself to be a part of many other families, much more than my own.
postscript: I’ve just called my dad. There is something in all of this that we are able to share.
It seems like your work is trying to take a stand, yet it fails to the extent that what it aims to stand on has not been successfully excluded anywhere. If you imagine yourself standing here, then it’s because you think this is the place to be.
I want to ask you why or by what means you see blood in places where there is none. Are you standing in a pool of it?
Last night on the episode of Downtown Abbey that I was watching, a soldier slit his wrists because he’d lost his eyesight and was going to be transferred far away from the people who’d helped him gain confidence. I have often seen and felt myself in a similar light. Seeing yourself from the inside out.
To what extent is fear written into the world?
I pick up scraps; I toss them to the sea. I pick up scraps; I toss them to the sea.
How long will it take before you finish erasing?
I couldn’t possibly explain the trouble I’ve gone to to not erase. I can’t believe you just asked me that question. Did you read what I didn’t write? Did you fall out of the womb yesterday?
More than anything, I want to know what it’s like to be you.
This is a great question. It’s almost too easy. I think I’m better off imagining we’re in a painting, exchanging glances that can then be read by a third or fourth party as an example of something. If I try to say anything else, it will fall flat, flatter than the figures in this draaaawering.
“Etched in stone may break your bones, but names will never hurt you.” What does that elicit for you?
Every rose has its thorn, just like every night has its dawn. Every cowboy sings a sad, sad song. Every rose has its thorn.
Aurora pricks her finger on the spinning wheel and a drop of blood pops out like the head of a baby.
What do you think about the writing you’ve done and want to continue to do? Be honest.
I hate to stop here, but we’re out of time. We can pick this up again tomorrow.