Thus I concluded the second-to-last post, more for affect then out of a compunction for truthiness.  My sleep is anything but dead.  Last night, for instance, I body-surfed for hours with some unknown (now) female friends in the Caribbean, worked in a garden where who should be inside the house, Loretta Miller, whom I haven’t seen in 40 years and we hugged, and I said I would have recognized you instantly; taught a very large swim class at a very large pool where I had to shout to be heard; and about 65 other improbable things which now I’ve forgotten.

“I’ve forgotten.”  As if I had anything to do with the dreaming or the forgetting, having as much volition as a sock puppet.  The gate to the playland of the prefrontal cortex is left open and “I” just wanders in.  Falls down the rabbit hole is a better metaphor.

I speak French fluently, explore unknown mansions, even write the occasional poem that Auden would envy. I am Orpheus/Morpheus.  I dare not look at my beautiful creation directly or it will die.  It will disappear unless I do.  Poof, gone, back to the underworld.  Auden is safe once more.

It’s not all fun and games.  Here I am again, impossibly late for the plane to India, in a incomprehensible airport, with unhelpful attendants.  I am going to explode with tension.  Instead I wake up to this snail’s life.

I breathe.  This body is mine, the bed, the comforter.


4 responses to ““SLEEP OF THE DEAD”

  1. So, was it you I ran into on top of the very flat skyscraper where the wind was blowing so hard I had to spread-eagle and hold on with my fingernails? The same skyscraper where the elevators go up very fast, don’t stop at the floors you want them to, and occasionally have their walls disappear?

  2. In Faro's Garden

    That was Tom Cruise. We get confused all the time.

  3. I KNEW you reminded me of someone! Love this piece.

  4. &yes, another message from the future…

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