To My Waking Self (first letter)

Hi There Old Friend.
I’d be surprised if you weren’t still feeling a bit anxious. It must seem so inexplicable most of the time. I’m writing to fill you in of course.
I’ve been told the banality of dreams is compounded by recounting them, but I don’t think you’ll mind given who we are.
We were hastily putting together new pieces for an upcoming retrospective of our work. We deployed a homespun drawing process using stump-like clumps of a rubbery substance growing under the root systems of our house plants. We’d harvest them, strap them to our forehead and “nod” against vintage wrapping papers stolen from a Sears Museum in the basement of our apartment building.
Our head movement was agitated by the recitation of monologues culled from a vast collection of retirement home brochures. We imagined performing the texts during film role auditions.
Elias Kazan (and someone else we later recognized as our grade three gym teacher) would circle around us on a Zamboni while insisting we coordinate our deliveries with a cap gun going off in the distance.
The artist-run centre exhibiting our stuff was the oldest in the neighborhood (converted from a soup kitchen the day Phil Donahue retired from television) and we were encouraged to use its revered attic space. We set up an elaborate mood board in a garage by the airport where we reviewed installation plans and studied Polaroids of the gallery, alongside pictures of beaver dens and Romanesque dungeons cut out of library books. They all looked the same to us. We were reminded of the gaping holes under the roots of our houseplants.
We went to our opening very late in the evening, hoping most people around town had already came and went, but when we arrived at the top of the stairs Fed Ex men were still hanging some framed photographs. It was as if the show hadn’t opened yet, or that it was just about to despite some last minute finagling.
None of our work was in the show. There were newspaper articles under glass about a Canada Day parade in our Dad’s hometown and snapshots of us helping friends move over decades.
A small, half animal woman appeared from behind a tree trunk telephone booth and told us to go home. She said the curator would be in touch.
It doesn’t matter much to me how you understand all this, as long as this report of mine thwarts that compulsion you woke up with this morning. Stop listening to You’re So Vain on repeat and get on with the rest of your life.
Stop trying to remember too. It’s probably the forgotten who visit us in sleep.  If I figure it out I’ll get back to you.