Posted by: normanlgreen | September 29, 2012

Dream, September 29, 2012 battle of the book

Dream, home, 4:22 am

Commissioned to write a book in a single night. Boxes of loose pages provided as reference material. A nylon tent set up in the foyer of a business – closed for the night, but lit up for my purposes.

In my frustration, I stand within the short tent, extend my arms and stretch the opaque white nylon.  I growl at the voices I hear from the other side of the fabric.

A young man has come into the shop to observe as I struggle. I leave the tent to gather more of the papers. The dark-haired boy hands me worn-out paper back, a history of some event in the second world war. He wants me to autograph it, knowing that it is not my writing. He has opened the book to a place near the middle, a natural spot due to the broken spine.

At the page to which it is opened, I see a facsimile of a document. I bears my father’s name. I sign in the top margin. My handwriting looks not like my own, but like that of my younger son. I date the signature in ’08, scratch that out, knowing it is wrong, and re-write it as ’01. The page is a mess.

Waking words: Words in mortal combat. They stand in close ranks that they might destroy themselves.



  1. What we leave to one another — words conflicted. Great to have your dreams a-going again!

  2. It is fair to say I did not have mu glasses on when I spelled my own last name.

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