In my dreams MPA is always adding to itself. The buildings grow floors or towers, turrets and depths like terraces add themselves to Jones Bowl.
Chicago, likewise, is becoming something more than itself, something my imagination has taken for its own and is encrusting with history not of me, but of somewhere extraordinary.
There are castles clinging to skyscrapers like barnacles of history and arrow slots, highways spiraling through towers made of sooty stone and windows no one looks out of but for me, and I know their stories. In my dreams I can tell you when the castle was built, why it clings for life to the buildings that have planted themselves on its undersides. I offer tales of the oldest bricks in the highway towers with my former schoolmates, we are tour guides to this impossible landscape.
There is always the sensation that this history is nothing added. Rather, I am learning to pull away the veils of ignorance and finally to see them - to describe their stories and so to acknowledge them as real.
Between lace-work, Cosmos and lots of book talk yesterday, the world of my dreams reminds me that it is has never stopped working, even when I was too tired to notice.
Time to catch up.
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