“In the ambition was a desire to make over the world as it should be; but in the disappearances was the desire to live as though it had been made over, to refashion oneself into a hero who disappeared not only into the sky, the sea, the wilderness, but into a conception of self, into legend, into the heights of possibility.”
– Rebecca Solnit, From: Yves Klein and the Blue of Distance, A Field Guide to Getting Lost
In the car heading towards the Blue Ridge Mountains, the writer next to me says, “I am sure I know what it is to fly. I am sure I have flown.” The conversation turns to what the ‘feeling’ of flight is. Gliding? Rising? Hovering? in a waking state or within the dream. And if the act was in a dream, has it in fact happened? Or as Estha asks in Arundhati Roy’s, The God of Small Things “If you are happy in a dream, Ammu, does that count?”
We, like Ammu, know “that only what counts, counts.”
Memory is as illusive in its truths. Shifting at times from the hippocampus to the neocortex. Unstable and associative, we can never know its presence fully. Do we privilege our waking state because our memories seem easier to recall than our dreams which though we may grab their tales are always slippery.
In the dream I stand out on a desolate pier. It is morning. Early. I am home, or not home, have never been here, yet know this place fully. I reach my arms upwards towards the sky but am falling. Awakening as I hit the water.
I do not have Yves Klein’s courage or fortitude. I step more like a clown, though expecting to be a feather. Seeking lift-off, knowing one must leap.