Remembering Myself, Travestying Time…and Phonying towards Perfection



“Dreams”_ Sebald

I suppose it is submerged memories that give to dreams their curious air of hyper-reality. But perhaps there is something else as well, something nebulous, gauze-like, through which everything one sees in a dream seems, paradoxically, much clearer. A pond becomes a lake, a breeze becomes a storm, a handful of dust is a desert, a grain of sulphur in the  blood is a volcanic inferno. What manner of theatre is it, in which we are at once playwright, actor, stage manager, scene painter and audience?

W G Sebald. The Rings of Saturn.



In a dream, flowers grew in the sky –
Violets scattered over a blue meadow
Cotton clouds leap over them
Trampling the dew struck glaze of red petals
Devouring the white unicorn
and the benevolent face
Like a sponge sucks in wetness.


There were two great friends—the Cat and the Mouse. They lived next door to each other and used to play together every day. One day, they were walking down a corridor in the Cat’s house, talking of many things. Just as they were walking and talking, all of a sudden, the Cat leaped up into the air, his fur all bristling. The Mouse was beside herself with wonder and surprise because there wasn’t anything in the corridor that could have possibly caused this unexpected reaction in the Cat. But just as suddenly, the Cat landed on his four paws and resumed his walk and talk where he had broken off. This unwarranted coolness of manner disturbed the Mouse’s curiosity and she asked Continue reading “A CAT & MOUSE STORY”

“For instance I hold a gun”

For instance I hold a gun. For instance I aim at a bland, quietly interested enemy. Oh, I press the trigger all right, but one bullet after another feebly drops on the floor from the sheepish muzzle. In those dreams, my only thought is to conceal the fiasco from my foe, who is slowly growing annoyed.

Lolita. Vladimir Nabokov.

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