Last week I had the most bizarre dream, and although it is cliche to write about a dream when you are scratching for anything to draw a little creativity out of your brain and into your Mac, I intend to risk it.
There is a window. It’s a storybook second-story window – perhaps you would call it a “Waltons” window. White trimmed on a white wall, it frames a beautiful scene. A vibrant tree at an angle such that the viewer gets a glimpse of a particular branch just-so, despite the fullness all around. Sunlight adorns it all with comfort and warmth. And on that particular branch, a bird gracefully lights.
Well, a bird gracefully lights as gracefully as a bird done in what appears to be steampunk mechanisms can land. There are no gears or clicks, no sounds to indicate the bird is mechanical. In fact, the ambiance and tone of this dreamscape assure you the bird is very real indeed. Its movements though, are reminiscent of a book, or maybe a video game animation? Its a beautiful creature actually. Not at all the stereotype clockwork bird. You see, it’s feathers are a compilation of all the colors of blue you’ve ever seen in the sky. Those beautiful feathers draw instantly from every clear blue-sky day. The feelings that accompanied them flood your heart, and you are charmed and endeared by the little thing right away.
But it’s injured somehow. You can’t tell where, but something is not right. So you open the window and reach your hand out “Snow White-style” for the visitor to hop to you, a harmless exchange of cartoonish proportions. Bringing it into the room you quickly grab a towel and dampen a corner in the washbasin. That’s right – a wash basin. Clockwork birds are a connection between the past and the present, thus a wash basin is perfectly normal in this dream scenario, you reason.
The bird flutters in your care and stays as still as a living wild being can stay while it trusts your care to its wounds. It’s eyes are gouged out. Where there would be those beady little eyes in most typical real-world birds, eyes that you could look into and wonder if they hide a greater intelligence than you have been taught to believe exists in the avian world, there are only bloody holes the width of a finger or a thumb. Strange and macabre, to be sure.
So you dab gently the blood and seem to make progress on the bird’s left eye, almost completely cleaning it to the scabby remains in the socket. But the right eye is still seeping a little, and you notice as you dab that this socket still has it’s eye. And just when you think the situation could not get any creepier, you see it. The clockwork bird’s eye is looking at you with the eye of a puppy dog, begging for care and love and thanking you for your attention.
Thus, Dear Reader, I ask you – why would this be the point when reality cuts a hole in the dream fabric and yanks you out? Why would this be the point you awake? And what does it all mean?
I await your creative thoughts.