Bagging Peter Beagle
Dreamed 2017/7/7 by Wayan
I'm at a party at a big lonely house on a dry grassy hill somewhere north. The host is writer Peter S. Beagle! He's very old now; still energetic, but wobbly in a strange way. Really weird body language. Not drunk like the rest of us--something else. Side effect of some drug?
Does he hit me, do I push him away? I'm not clear, but somehow he falls backwards and hits his head and I feel to blame. He's out cold. Doesn't come to. Unconscious or dead?
But by now we're all so drunk we just soddenly debate what to do, and DO nothing. Sit him on a sofa. Hours later, he hasn't stirred. Coma? Dead? Feels cold. I assume he's dead and we murdered him! Feel guilty and scared.
Someone put him in a huge brown coarse-woven hairy bag. I put him in the fireplace, prepare to light a fire and burn him! Still not thinking clearly. Sure he's dead, sure we killed him somehow, and just want the evidence to vanish...
Then I wake--convinced I killed Peter Beagle. Feel guilty for half an hour--SURE it was real. Keep reminding myself I haven't even seen him for years. Why so guilty?
NOTES IN THE MORNING
I read Passing Strange by Ellen Klages, set in the lesbian underworld of San Francisco in 1940. A painter and singer fall in love, but Haskel's drunken ex-husband suddenly reappears after four years--attacks her in the street. Her girlfriend defends her. The drunk falls, a cab runs him over, he dies. The lovers, in a guilty panic, flee...
Now wait a minute. I dreamed this--
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