Last night in my dreams, a cathedral was dragged away from somewhere’s coast and sunk.
I was on a beach: comfortable weather, hazy summer air. The news was reporting George W. Bush stepping down due to serious-to-severe health news (yes, politics have invaded my dreams, and I wish they wouldn’t; grr), when what do I see when I look out towards the water again but a cathedral, gothic and ashen, being dragged offshore. Turn away, look again a moment later, and it was farther away, so far out it was a near-featureless silhouette.
And the explosions began. And suddenly the edifice seemed much closer to the shore: I could see the stonework, the flying buttresses, the gargoyles. And I could very easily see the gushers of water, displaced by the explosions under the waterline, arcing towards the beach.
Soaking. Blasts. Soaking again. And blasts again. Again, and again.
A few years ago, Harlan Ellison wrote a story titled “Midnight in the Sunken Cathedral.”
Last night, I watched a similar sinking. And, perhaps – who knows, when measuring time in dreams – it happened at midnight.
There’s symmetry in there, somewhere.