Dream of: 03 July 2004 "Faulknerian"

dreams can be sources

of light midst obscurity

of ponderous life

I was watching television, a play by Shakespeare, either Romeo and Juliet or Beauty and the Beast. I had watched it so many times, I easily followed the complex plot and understood the winding words. I was familiar with almost all of Shakespeare's plays, I could just stay here for hour upon hour, watching Shakespeare.

I glanced out the window at the sun-lit sidewalk which stretched down a bright, residential street lined with two-story, frame houses. I could see all the way to the intersection of the next street, 10-15 houses away. There, on the corner, in the yard of a house, a couple pieces of paper were being blown by the wind. I concentrated on the two pieces of paper until I realized they were money: one looked like a $1 bill and the other a $5 note.

Hardly hesitating, I stood up and walked out the front door. As I began running down the sidewalk toward the bills, I took note that I was not wearing any shoes, only a pair of heavy gray socks. I thought I should probably turn around -- this was how holes were made in socks -- but I continued on, worried that someone else would find the bills before I did.

I reached the corner and chased after the large bill, allowing the $1 bill to blow away. I finally trapped the large bill in my hand, picked it up, and began walking back the way I had come. As I examined the bill, it looked more like a whole pack of bills which had small holes eaten all the way through them, obviously from insects. Although damaged, however, the bills were still good.

I reached the house, gave the pack of bills to someone inside, and immediately turned around to go back down the street. I thought perhaps more bills were out there, just blowing around, waiting to be found. I was walking now, not running. I passed a house on my left where a garage sale was taking place, but I did not stop. I hardly ever went to garage sales anymore.

As I walked, I thought about what I ought to be doing with my time. I thought  I ought to be writing, and a little story began to surface in my mind. I could write about a man named "Moro." Moro would be a fellow who went for a long walk, and the story would be about Moro's experiences during the course of his walk. I would make the story interesting by concentrating on the words I would use. I thought about William Faulkner's style of writing, his convoluted sentence-structure and obscurity. I might even invent new words. I could use the word "Faulknerian" as I described Moro's walk. The word seemed appropriate, meaning "obscure" and "ponderous," to describe Moro's mental state.

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