When I dream I find the edge of the world around me is not soft, like many say, but often more solid than the waking world. As I travel through the east of Europe this distinction between awake and asleep is even more blurry.
After leaving London i arrive in Zagreb, spending only one night, performing and then getting on the train the next morning to Wroclaw (pronounced Vra-suave) PL. The train took us through the Austrian alps, having fallen asleep in the desolation of industrial remains outside of Zagreb I awoke in the high mountain air, surrounded by a full scale model of the toy train I had as a kid. Tunnels carved through mountains, bridges that have held armies for centuries, ski resorts melting into the blanket of white up about as the clear blue sky radiates a subtle energy only found in the high air.
The train ride was long and as the mountains become the plains once more we crossed into Poland, the scar of the Soviet empire is still pink and shining in the south, practically abandoned industrial towns, decaying train cars left on old tracks being eaten by rust and time. The air is colder here.
But soon (or not so soon really) we are in Wroclaw. I have been here before and there is a comfort here for me. I often dream of these streets – like the memories of some lost Bruno Schulz story laid before me to wander and to explore.
On the train I have been reading “House of Day, House of Night” by the Polish author Olga Torarczuk. It takes place here in Silesia, the region of Poland that Wroclaw is in and its thoughts on dreams, sounds, and scent are mingling with my own. Maybe I will run into the author – who lives here.