The Fourth Factor

The dream begins with a line floating in midair, semitransparent with a pinkish fringe to it—a little like an ostrich feather. I compress it down to a point and store it away somehow. This thing has a long history behind it: back in the 14th century—there was a precise date, but I can no longer remember it—any number of these things were deliberately left out of an important document, like a charter, maybe. This was a political maneuver against the aristocracy: they were traditionally associated with it, and leaving them out rendered them invisible.

That was 400 years ago—as my dream self reckons it—and nobody cares about any of that stuff anymore, but all those things have been floating around invisibly ever since. But I’ve just found this one. It’s nothing important—maybe some quirk or mannerism is all—but the workmen seem happy that it’s been brought to light again.

They’re working on the garage door: that’s where we are, a garage—one that could pass for the garage in my current house, other than not having any junk in it. It’s time to see if the door is fixed: I press the button. The door comes down—a surprisingly complicated process—but in the end, some parts of it have come out of alignment. It looks like it still needs some work.

15.2.18