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Pre-Spring ‘25 Editorial

 "Sleeping Beauty" by Durga Chew-Bose

Images: Daniel Roché
Words: Durga Chew-Bose
Date: 23.01.2025
Description of the image

In one dream, she was a bird, but not quite. She found herself flying and so she assumed she must be a bird, but in reality—in that funny dream reality that arrives textured and tangible—she was herself, only winged with what looked like a broken umbrella, mangled and flattened and perfect for flight. She was on her way, soaring with a great view. She’d never wondered what that might feel like to soar; she found it strange at first, yet familiar like a song. She hadn’t considered how vulnerable and exposing it is to move with ease in a manner that is covetable and uninhibited. She hadn’t thought about how the clouds would make her blush. She was encouraged by her unsteadiness: little erratic shakes from left to right that prompted puffs of fear and forced her to seek balance which she soon discovered was just a variety of…rest. Balance could introduce rest. Sometimes she would close her eyes, and in those moments, she wasn’t flying but steered instead by her insides. What she was seeing—her view from way up high, miles and miles away—was guided by things she already knew. Distance was a duplicate of her intuition. 

In one dream, she was a bird, but not quite. She found herself flying and so she assumed she must be a bird, but in reality—in that funny dream reality that arrives textured and tangible—she was herself, only winged with what looked like a broken umbrella, mangled and flattened and perfect for flight. She was on her way, soaring with a great view. She’d never wondered what that might feel like to soar; she found it strange at first, yet familiar like a song. She hadn’t considered how vulnerable and exposing it is to move with ease in a manner that is covetable and uninhibited. She hadn’t thought about how the clouds would make her blush. She was encouraged by her unsteadiness: little erratic shakes from left to right that prompted puffs of fear and forced her to seek balance which she soon discovered was just a variety of…rest. Balance could introduce rest. Sometimes she would close her eyes, and in those moments, she wasn’t flying but steered instead by her insides. What she was seeing—her view from way up high, miles and miles away—was guided by things she already knew. Distance was a duplicate of her intuition. 
In another dream, the terms were far more practical. She was wearing clothes she always wore. It was a Tuesday. It was early spring, crisp and hopeful. She was cycling down a small lane hidden between two busier streets; a shortcut that made each morning feel like a secret. In this dream, nothing happened until it did. In this dream, the lane ended, spitting her out into a road with pretty features like an oak tree in good form, holding court in a nearby park. The stores had awnings, some striped. The stores seemed plucked from a to-do list: this one for bread, this one for ribbon, this one for salt. The road was neither smooth nor bumpy. She was cycling until she wasn’t. She was cycling until she found herself flat on the road, thrown from her bicycle, staring at her palm, scratched and bloodied. She didn’t see it coming, though she should have—but isn’t that what makes a dream relevant…the things we don’t see coming? It was life-size. Like something that falls from the sky—a piece belonging to another, bigger piece. Like a spindle, from space. She lay there stunned, silent, unusually calm. She felt no need to sort through the shock. In this dream, the terms were plain: an accident had occurred, and she would recover, but for now, she barely moved. This metal spike—out of thin air—asked for nothing but pause. Bewilderment was hard enough to come by, she thought. Why hurry through it? 


One dream involved a kiss. A woman who she’d seen in a magazine was standing beside her, smiling. She was taller in person, less pink in the cheeks, and smelled like a forest. The woman kissed her with the least amount of effort. She loved it. She’d never known a kiss could wake her up, never mind a kiss that arrived like a surprise, light and lovely. The kiss refused possession. It wanted nothing in exchange. In the next dream, she was seated beside a woman she’d only heard of and seen in photos, whose presence was multiplying in her periphery but whom she’d never crossed paths with. That’s how it always happened. There would be a woman who everyone knew except for her, who everyone seemed drawn to. Finally, it was her turn to meet this woman, to introduce herself and grasp just what it was that made this woman attract others. She was seated to her left, which was convenient because she liked her right side. They were both guests at a dinner with twelve other women, who all seemed to like the same jewelry designer, who were all practicing a new variety of elegance that counted on keeping your coat on at the table and never covering the dark circles under one’s eyes. When it came time to introduce herself, she turned her body to the right and opened her mouth only to discover the woman was wearing a small note pinned to her coat that read: “Sorry, I’ve lost my voice.” She had waited long to meet this woman and now, there was no conversation to be had. What a dream to live inside of this dream, where anticipation is met not with regret, but with luck. The mystery of this woman was preserved. Proximity without satisfaction was a prize. It was the thing that lingers, neither real nor made up; an in between-ness that could feel like mischief, true love, a close call.  
This next one recurred and always took place in an empty room without windows or doors. There were four walls, a ceiling and a black floor. There was a plinth with endless possibilities, but in this dream, she made a habit of sliding her body onto it and laying still. She loved the feeling of flatness. Of discomfort. Of no suitable position. She wondered if this dream was a buffer dream. If this dream meant another dream was on its way, loading and glitchy. Whenever the plinth would appear she knew something previously unknown was about to become clear.
Occasionally, her dreams were violent. She’d be surrounded or confined, with little means for escape. She would always find a way. A small door with a broken latch, a ladder to the sky, a rope with knots to climb, a wall to scale, a clear path, a familiar face.  Sometimes her dreams brought her to the beach. On such occasions, the dreams were vague the way sand is vague, the way the sea is vague, the way waves are vague but recur, as if their vagueness is something to count on.  This time, the beach in her dreams was covered in snow. A layer of fresh white snow that fell lightly, almost informally, as if it wasn’t there to stay. As if it wasn’t winter at all and the snow was a fluke the way balmy weather or blue skies portend bad news. This snow, dissonant and casual, was up to something, and so she minded it. The miracle of two dusts—snow and sand—touching in a forbidden manner. This often happened in her dreams. A scenario would appear with cautionary unease, only to be forgotten by morning when she woke. 
In another dream, she was sleeping. That was it—a dream so undemanding and clever, it presented itself as the weirdest dream of all. She’d never seen herself sleep before. It was as if she was under a spell, totally, deeply elsewhere. She felt shy watching herself. It was barely tolerable, but she couldn’t look away. The dream was a trap—soothing maybe—but still a trap! She never told anyone about this dream, mostly because what sprung to mind was delicate to express. Asleep, she looked beautiful. Beautiful in a way that might never have occurred to her, had she not dreamt about herself sleeping. She’d spent her life so far wondering how others might perceive her—a quality she knew was bad for the soul. She’d spent her life aware of her long fingers, the angles on her right side, her voice after speaking all day, or how a dress might fall on her hipbones, or how to create shadows with her posture, or when it was time for a haircut, or when it was time to switch silver for gold. But now, she was asleep and unembellished by angles and light and consciousness. In this dream, she was seen.  
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