I dreamt I was at my own funeral. Stylishly dressed women I didn't know were talking near me. I couldn't understand what they were saying - just enough to know it wasn't about me. Even at my own funeral, in my own dream, I'm not a topic of interest.
One woman turned to me - her face and words buzzy and indestinct. I had an impression of a pale face like a crescent moon, chin jutting out like a cartoon moon's sliver bottom edge. Her buzzing noise words are at me and about me but only polite murmurs of what is required at a time like this.
People I used to work with are folding some huge black cloth, thick and soft and somehow both dense and without substance. They are arguing about the proper way to fold it.
No one misses me.
I wake up because someone says my name, close, very near, a voice I don't know.
It seemed urgent, somehow needing, imploring.
No one was there.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
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