I dreamed that Zanne did indeed find a
way to get into the dome, and that it somehow had come from Belen. I did not dream Belen's actual moment of death,
but at the beginning of the dream she was there, and by the end she was not.
I dreamed vaguely of the fever that
often overtook me late in the Charadocian Revolution. I have filled in much detail while awake,
though. It's logical, anyway–her immune system
would have to be so crashed right now that the parasites in her must have had a
field day. Dragging fever is not like
malaria with a neat, predictable cycle.
The little beasts are more like microscopic javalinas, breeding whenever
conditions seem most optimal.
I have repeatedly, throughout my life,
dreamed Deirdre's dream the other way around, promising Deirdre and all the
others to remember them, until I reached a point, right before the fanfic
hiatus, where I finally argued. All of
this slipping back and forth between times and realities may be science fiction
to you, the reader, but it's mundane life for me. They say never to break "the fourth wall"
between writer and subject, but I can hardly find it, myself. Sometimes I wonder if I am a character in
somebody else's story. (Within the story
itself, of course, this has the explanation of George the Changewright messing
up the boundaries of space, time, and whatever.)
Greg Bear called it mental illness to
confuse one's own writing with reality.
Fritz Leiber considered mental illness as valid a source of inspiration
as any other. JRR Tolkien just wrote
whatever he had to write as it came to him, sometimes apparently believing in
it and sometimes not, and seemed to go back and forth as to where he thought it
came from or whether his sense of the story's substance was healthy; sometimes
though, he did say, point blank, that he felt that he received rather than made
up the tales he told, glimpsed from an existent reality. (I do understand that feeling something and
believing something are two different things.)
All that I know for certain, myself, aside from my certainty of the
existence of God (who may or may not approve of, disapprove of, or regard with
indifference what I jot down, beyond any guess of mine) is that for some reason
I have to write this stuff, and write
it so "accurately" that I cannot risk a publisher's interference, however it
might improve the product. I have no
I can, of course, make guesses, without
certainty in anything. Perhaps my
"sanity", or at least my capacity to function adequately in society, depends on
wrestling with whatever archetypes lie behind these stories. (If so, my mind is not so unique that these
might not touch others as well.) Perhaps
it gives my Shadow an outlet so as not to invade my waking world. Maybe a personality splinter writes them and
then conscious-me feels as though I receive them from some muse. And perhaps others need these tales more than
I do, maybe someone among the very few who read them now, maybe others who
might read them after I die, since nothing ever completely disappears from the
Internet. Many works had no popular
meaning at the time their writer or their painter or their composer made them,
but zoomed in popularity later when needs changed. And maybe somebody external really did give
me these dreams and this imperative.
I've known stranger things to happen.
Does it really matter?
I wrote of
Sanzio's encounter with Zofia, but as though a witness to something unfolding
before me on the screen. (Again,
Tolkien's sensation of receiving something.)
I had no idea how it would turn out, no clue in the beginning that Zofia
would kill herself or that Sanzio would burn the infirmary behind him. I do not feel pleased that such things can
mushroom up out of my imagination without my bidding, but it feels too true, in
its own weird way, for me not to include it.
Somehow this, too, is something that Deirdre wants me to remember.