If the subconscious human brain is meant to be a creative artist of great untapped genius, it still needs the help of a damn good editor.
For proof, let me refer you without further ado to my very own mind. I woke up this morning from a positive Brazilian telenovela of a dream about an alcoholic tramp who died alone and unmourned. His body then ended up getting mummified (quite how, alas I now couldn't tell you. It may possibly have been by some rare natural process, though). Through a chain of the most unlikely coincidences, it got stolen by loads of different people and ends up going on adventures with them all.
Yet it all seemed ineffably brilliant and compelling as I watched it on the screen of my mind's eye. Yes, but remember I was akip at the time! My conscious, critical side was taking a well-earned rest from reality for the duration.
Just the other morning, I woke up with the words The Girl With A Different Life Next Door clamouring ceaselessly through my mind.
No doubt Sylvia Browne and her spirit guide Francine would say that whoever it is from the Other Side who has taken on the onerous task of mentoring me for my writing work over here has infused this title to me, as I am meant to be taking the piece down and getting it published under my current name on this side. Well, if that’s true, could you lot over there please send me the rest as soon as you’re ready? Me and the trusty laptop are waiting.
By the way, I’ve now looked up the title on Google – and it doesn’t seem to exist in our reality yet.
It's all starting to remind me rather uncomfortably of the tale of Henry James' psychologist brother William waking up one morning convinced that he had been told the great secret of the relationship between the sexes during his dreams the night before.
Guess what it turned out to be?
Higamous hogamous
Woman is monogamous
Hogamous higamous
Man is polygamous.
Someone else whose name I can't presently recall, so will need to look up, reckoned that God gave them the gift of writing immortal poetry in their dreams. They too kept a handy pad and pen beside the bed, which they used to scribble down the only fragment of the towering verse that they could remember on waking:
It was a miracle of strange device
A [something totally incongruous- cockroach, perhaps? Better check this one out, too] made of snow and ice ...
Like I say, all in bloody dire need of a tough sub-editor.
Maybe THAT'S what we over here are meant to do with the information that gets 'infused' to us?
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