Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Waking up is hard to blog

Jack was surprised to find me typing away at my computer after 2 a.m. "Why are you awake?" he asked.

"I had a bad dream about blogging and couldn't get back to sleep," I said. "So I decided to check my e-mail."

Seeing as how this is nowhere near the weirdest thing I've ever said to him, Jack accepted my explanation without question. In truth, though, the dream was not a nightmare at all. In fact, it was a very good dream, in which I composed the most amazing blog post the Internet had ever seen.

The post itself was loosely based on one of Le Cornichon's essays but took off in a different direction. I incorporated a number of seemingly unrelated ideas, then wove them into a seamless tapestry of exposition, the kind that makes readers slap themselves and say, "My God! My God, yes, of course!"

Quite an exciting moment of revelation, until I woke up. The dream melted away and slipped down the drain of my consciousness, leaving only a lonely, puddled sentence fragment behind:

"As we can see from the metaphor of the dentist, Grant Smiling..."

That's it. That's all that's left of an imaginary blog entry that could have won a Pulitzer. I could cry.

Which is why I was checking e-mail at 2:00 in the morning, hoping against hope that Le Cornichon had written something--anything--that would jumpstart my brain and bring my dream memories flooding back.

Alas, he had not... although he had sent an unsolicited picture of a rugged, well-endowed moose of a man, wearing a come-hither smile and not much else. So that was nice. And later in the day, Sarah agreed that Grant Smiling would make a wonderful name for a dentist. Which also helped.


Code Name Sarah said...

You know, this is exactly like the Tenacious D song "Tribute." Except, you know, that it's not really that similar.

Never mind.

Evn said...

I appreciate the effort, though.

Yewtree said...

Reminds me of the story of how Xanadu was composed:
In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in Purchas's Pilgrimage: ``Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall.'' The Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!

Lisa Adams said...

I wish I could come up with something useful to say other then my condolences hon.

Bo said...

This happens to me all the time!!!!

Evn said...

Bo, isn't it awful? (Although thank you for the solidarity.)