Приснилась визуально-словесная пародия на определенного типа англоязычные тексты, зачем-то с отсылками к русской культуре. Отметим, сама бы я такой текст не написала (и не хотела бы написать). Содержание (увы, без картинок из сна) примерно следующее:
As I was walking in the woods on what one might have called a snowy evening, only it wasn't exactly a wood, rather a river bank, and it wasn't really snowing, although the river - it was actually a river bank - was indeed covered with ice, I saw a man, a janitor, pick up a book lying on the ice. He opened it and started to read captivated and mesmerised - I could tell by the look on his face he was totally immersed in the book. That look gave me the urge to go back home, open my laptop and type the first sentence of my own book - the one and only. A spent almost a year pouring all my experiences, hidden wishes and unrealised dreams out on paper, sorry, screen. Eventually, the book was ready - neat greyish cover with large black words in fine font: DREAM, ASPIRE, ACT (wasn't the original title I gave them PRAY, EAT, LOVE, or no, the publisher said it sounded too familiar and reminded her of her grandmother pressing her to finish her meals quickly). However, I was a proud author, those sleepless nights and fits of despair. To stop my beating mind and share my joy with the world I decided to take a walk. Treading along the riverbank I deliberately dropped a couple of copies - just to see whether anyone would care to pick them up, like that guy a year ago. And - surprise-surprise - the same book-thirsty janitor happened to come by: he noticed the book, stooped to pick it up, opened it, and after reading some random lines took a big swing and threw it right into the middle of the river. I waited until he disappeared, and feeling deeply degraded, climbed down the slope to the ice-covered surface. I picked my very own humiliated book and began to read it. I realised I actually liked it, and thought the guy must have been prematurely brain dead to throw it away so quickly. For I did like it. Time went by. I started to receive rather favorable reviews - I don't know whether it was the book itself, or the publisher payed critics to make it look good in magazines and on web-sites. Some people even wrote me letters. And I felt I had to write another book. Instead of celebrating my narrow escape from my own little mind-Gulag, I was panting towards an even harsher labor camp hoping that Nikita Mikhalkov (он-то откуда взялся в моем сне - в реальности его фильмы, особенно последние, глухо раздражают) would some day find my book good enough to use in his film.
