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Dream decoding — Description

When I enter, in the old, dirty room there is the persistent ticking of a stopwatch—muffled, as if it were hidden or protected by something. Instead it is the Hummingbird, and the ticking is the sound of its heart beating at a frantic speed (as with all hummingbirds). The little bird flits restlessly in front of a wound in the wall facing me. In truth it is not a wound; it is simply that the wall is finally relieving itself of something.

Out of it comes a crooked thing, spasmodic in its movements, with a deformed, idiotic smile beneath two eyes that look like fried eggs left to rot in mold. The Hummingbird vibrates around it with a boundless, ferocious interest. The creature stares at it, stupefied by its own birth and by wonder.

No one notices me; I am not really there, and I know perfectly well that I am inside a dream. The only novelty of this experience is that I have already dreamed these things before, but never together. Moreover, to paraphrase Georges Perec very freely: “given a wall, all that remains is to have something pass through it.” Wolves, demogorgons, cenobites. Hounds of Tindalos. It is a recurring image, familiar in its total otherness.

The hummingbird, on the other hand, carries a meaning that escapes me, one I have yet to understand, and in some way it fascinates and frightens me, because its presence in this scenario changes everything and makes new what is, all in all, a fairly canonical situation.

When I am awake and drinking my infusion, shapes of vapor rise from the cup that remind me strongly of embodied imagination and symbolic consciousness meeting each other in the dream.