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.