The dream of collapsing in church was
vague, but the events in Balboa Park actually happened exactly as described,
and the dream I had then will come into the tale eventually. I really do make transitions that
abruptly. I know that most people would
say that I have plenty enough reason to explain my dreams as purely
psychological, but regardless of my intellectual opinions on the matter, I do
not, cannot feel that way, because narcolepsy
makes it all so immediate for me. Parts
of me believe that these are “only” dreams, and parts of me believe that they
have some reality of their own. And, sane
or not, I love all of the people in them, heroes and villains alike.
And why should it matter? We will never know for certain whether King
Arthur ever existed or not. But
fictional or historical, his story will always linger with us, his courage will
always mean something. Stories—and
dreams—have their own reasoning.
I wrote the scene between Kiril and
I cannot honestly recall now whether I
dreamed or imagined Deirdre's nightmare of the dance of war.
I saw other faces in the mirror, in the
waking world, which one can attribute to the “hypnagogic hallucinations” of narcolepsy—dreaming
on one’s feet. I saw Zanne, Deirdre, and
Jake. It happened in the bathroom of the
Grail in San Diego, our communal household in the early days of our marriage,
so that would place it somewhere between 1985 and 1988, same as the Balboa Park
incident. I wove in viewpoints of the
others, how it must have seemed to them.
And it does make a kind of internal sense, with George messing up the
boundaries between worlds.\