In the Green House

Joanna Biggs

When I remember my dreams at all, they’re not stories but feelings. I once dreamed I was breastfeeding a flamingo, and I could feel the beak, even in the morning telling, before I saw the bird bite me. But even when a dream feels real there is often something in it to let you know you’re imagining things – a pink feathered bird in the hospital blanket rather than a plump pink baby – and perhaps this is also a source of comfort, the unholy contrast which insists none of this could possibly happen. Say, though, you can’t detect the unknotting detail: what’s a dream then? No longer an amusement for a lover, some solace for a friend or an offering for an analyst, the dream might be hellishly, inescapably real.

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