I am not generally a dream teller though I can remember dreams and keep a dream journal on occasion. I shy from relating the mosaics of the illud tempus because we all know they can be starchy when passed along–what felt vital on the pillow turns to hardtack chewed at sullen breakfasts.
Sometimes dreams are richly and deservedly received by grateful conscious sectors of the mind as if the cavalry has arrived in the night with stores of water and good books. We were out on the frontier without poetry by god and Lo! Walter Whitman arrived with what the bible people like to call “the good news” and I don’t mind borrowing the term for what Carl Jung called jokingly “the devotional book of the subconscious”.
Last night I dreamt of my friend Deborah Tall who was a poet and memoirist and a person of genuine ardor. Her life was cut short by cancer and the loss endures for her friends and readers alike. And so last night it was a shy, unasked for gift from the unconscious when I met Deborah in a dream library where she was happy to show me book after book. Of course in the mysterious ways of dreams I don’t know the names of these other worldly volumes but I feel calm and refreshed withal for Deborah’s happiness was indeed a profound effect and it has followed me into this morning.
“By God!” says the runty conscious mind. “By God! There’s something happening without my little purse.”
Deborah was alive in a great library where she had an office and poems and stars outside the windows.
Try putting that in the daytime purse ego boy.
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 
Oh that is beautiful, just beautiful. Did she laugh at all?
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