Last night I dreamt I was under an orange tree. And under that tree I was reading a book. And in the book? More orange trees. More versions of me. More books. And there was a friend in the dream, one of those oneiric undisclosed friends, foggy, but you know he’s a pal, and I said to him: “Take that Wallace Stevens!”
Now, morning, I’m drinking coffee. I don’t have a sunny chair, but I have sun on the inside like any good Finn.
Back to my dream: it’s rare for me to have literate dreams. Usually I’m being pursued by the Three Stooges and I’m running through a construction project wearing only my underpants.
Since only the dreamer can change the dream, avec Carl Jung, etc, maybe the next time I have the Stooges dream I should imagine I’m Nijinsky. Nijinsky dancing through chaos in his tighty whiteys.
That’s obviously the ticket.
Once, thirty years ago, I stood under a tree with a magpie’s nest. I talked to the emerging magpies. This was in a a park in Helsinki. I was wearing a business suit. When you talk to magpies you click your tongue. Together we made wonderful tones, the bent man and the wooden birds of pure appetite. Strangers walked by, thought nothing of it, it was Helsinki after all…
I do not want my day to be filled with stuffed, categorical imperatives. I want just a corner of a page bearing Beethoven’s final giddiness.