BARBARA CAPPONI / BABAS

The boundary between sleep and wakefulness is made of mist: it is one of the most fertile and mysterious realms, and great insights can emerge from it. For many indigenous peoples, dreams are as real as what happens in the light of day: our acts of cowardice, courage and love are just as true. We can grow and learn in each of these dimensions. I am convinced that this is the case.

I dream a great deal, in a structured way; I dream of music I have never heard in my waking life (sometimes I recorded it, as soon as I woke up); I dream with a cinematic flair worthy of Lean, Spielberg and Tarkovsky; I dream of places that are frightening but also marvellous, infinite, full of light; sometimes famous actors feature amongst the protagonists; occasionally I even dream with the closing credits.

My dreams fill me up; they spill over into the day, lingering like an imprint that fades little by little as the hours pass; sometimes, over the course of days.

Certain stories return and, over the years, they change, evolve. I have to cross a forest full of wolves. I have a sledge, just like in Jack London’s stories. At first, the wolves catch up with me easily: I wake up in a state of terror. Then I manage to reach a clearing, but they’re still right on my heels. Then I reach a hut in the clearing, but the doors won’t shut. One day they arrive whilst I’m in the house and walk on two legs; we dance together. Sometimes they’re being hunted and I have to help them. Lately, they’ve been mystical, blue apparitions. Ah, the wolves that visit me. Just as people who are no longer here visit me. Perhaps I don’t realise it, but even those who aren’t here yet visit me.

Sleeping, and dreaming, has never seemed like a waste of time to me. Quite the opposite.