Subject: Iowa

Date: 12 Aug 1997 00:00:00 GMT

From: nospamum@radix.net (MegaLiz)

Organization: MotPU: Where Binary Moodswings are ALWAYS on the Menu

Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free, alt.fan.grady-ward

 

 

 

 

 

Last night I dreamed I went to Iowa again.

 

Not really. I did dream it, but I don't think I've dreamed it BEFORE.

 

I woke in an old, well-loved house filled with haphazardly placed

furniture. Most of the furniture had drawers, but the drawers were

empty and clean. I supposed I should arrange things or fill some of

the drawers, but instead, I shrugged on someone's huge fluffy white

robe and someone else's fluffy blue slippers and started on a

meandering path toward the kitchen.

 

It was possible to find a different route to the kitchen each time.

This house had been three houses, joined like puzzle pieces to form a

solid but incoherent whole. It was even possible to find a different

route to a DIFFERENT kitchen, but I didn't think about that.

 

Somewhere a radio declared the weather was warm, just as I lifted a

shade to view the snowy backyard. Deep drifts of night snow were met

by huge spiraling flakes of falling, morning snow. If it was truly

warm, not just Iowa warm, I wanted to be out there. I would walk

outside to find my coffee, bathrobe and all. On such a morning, coffee

should be everywhere.

 

After finding a new way to the front door, through all three dining

rooms, I ran down the street, elated to be home in the silent snowy

streets. It appeared that I was the only person in town who was awake,

and all the over-large, old houses seemed to sigh comfortably and turn

away slightly as I passed.

 

I crept through a narrow alley of closed boardwalk booths and stilled

arcade machines, and studied pictures of fortune tellers who were now

absent. Everything here was freshly painted but abandoned.

 

Reaching the edge of the sea, I saw that all along the shore walked

others like me, compelled to visit this new inland wonder. Waves

roiled foamlessly around raw black mountains. The water was terribly

inviting: its deepest green, barely tinged with blue, promised warmth

and mystery. At the water's edge a sidewalk that had previously

paralleled a vanished street, was now in places partly or completely

washed by the surf. I started to walk along this path, passing

purposeful strangers who studied this quiet calamity, and children

skipping away from the waves.

 

Bodies of unlucky swimmers punctuated the sidewalk. They looked just

like the others, only faded and weathered. They didn't look

particularly happy. I stepped over them with care, regretting my

slippers, and wondering how so many could be seduced to swim here.

 

Quite suddenly, I became aware that Sparky was, very

uncharacteristically, kissing my hair and urging me to wake up. Wake

up. I woke up to find that she'd been sleeping upstairs all along.

 

Iowa is SO DAMNED SPOOKY.

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