Thursday, June 23, 2011

Lynx and bear

In the dream there's a lynx and a bear and a tree.

The animals struggle high up in the dense green, clots of fur and blood colouring the leaf veins and oak branches. I'm observing the battle from the balcony of a very tall building, a hillbilly skyscraper towering over the godforsaken woods. It's a remote place, a site of infinite solitude and creeping sadness. The sounds of the fighting reverberate violently through my vital organs. I think about the cravings of my body, the uselessness of this womanly frame; my soft limbs going to waste, the slow decay and disintegration of my disposable breasts. Once, there was immense wetness and lovely breathing, but in the dream I have committed myself to a kind of celibacy.

The quarreling animals are interrupted by a hand a God-like hand, my hand? – and fall down, crashing heavily to the ground. Their bodies seem whole and intact, but I know they are suffering from internal bleeding. It's a horrible intuition, an unfaltering diagnosis. The animals begin to drift up the river, the female following the male. The lynx and the bear are lovers, and soon they will die.


  1. The sensation of violent, the emotionally thick inevitability and the narrative remind me of a very old dream of mine, one that I used to call The dream's two apes. I should consider posting it at some stage.