Had several bizarre dreams last night. One of them involved my best friend’s sister-in-law, who is seriously ill. That one, while it made no linear sense, I can recall pretty clearly. But there was another one that eludes me, although I catch glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye as I go through my day today. I can taste it. A fleeting thing, a flavor I’m not aware of long enough to savor, just enough to register it’s uniqueness. It evokes the dream, but doesn’t bring it back. It teases. And niggles. It hits me in odd moments of quiet. It’s like it wants to be remembered but is somehow unable to communicate directly with me.

Sometimes I think this is the Muse talking to me. One of my favorite authors and writing pundits, Holly Lisle, posits that the Muse doesn’t communicate on verbal terms. So dreams and other subconscious, non-verbal cues, are the path to understanding what the Muse has to say. On mornings like this, as I try to grasp smoke, I completely concur.

So what’s She trying to say to me? Well, damn it, if I could remember the dream, I might have a clue. But I can’t. It’s just a vague flavor. Something smoky, like lox or almonds. The idea occurs to me that I should find a half an hour or so to take a little nap, go back into that Delta state where I’m clearly more receptive. It would be nice if She could just leave me a voice mail on my subconscious answering machine, so I could pop back into REM and pick it up at my convenience. But there is NOTHING convenient about my Muse.

But no. No napping today. Today is Saturday, a busy day full of doing the marketing, preparing meals for the week, running to the pharmacy, doing laundry, giving the dog a much needed bath and finding the horizontal surfaces in the kitchen at the very least. I don’t see much opportunity to spend time napping… or even in quiet contemplation (O Navel navel navel navel…). So I’m sending out a message to the Muse, for Her to communicate with me a little more directly, in order to tell me what it is She’d like me to know. A picture in my head instead of words. Me, kneeling in supplication, offering up a bowl of Cheetos and a cup of Pumpkin Spice Latte to Her Exaltedness. In my vision, She smiles, accepts the offering and touches my forehead, where upon a light bulb appears over my head, like in the comics and I have an “aha” moment. Yah, no, it needs to be more direct. Like say, maybe She hits me with a brick upside the head, and suddenly all is clear. Okay, that’s more like it. She should know by now that with me subtle doesn’t work.

Maybe I should pop a couple of Excedrin Migraine now. You know, just to be prepared.