Mango in a dream is a dream, mango is mango. Woke up this morning with this in mind. Traveling three days, cross country, speaking about disability to college students at Pacific University, reading some prose and poetry, meeting new people, making new friends. Mango is mango. Trees are swaying around this airport hotel, moss covers the slates by the swimming pool out back where I take my guide dog early in the morning. Soon we will get on an airplane and fly all day back to New York. Mango. People with disabilities are in trouble. Mango. The nation wants to roll back every triumph of social service to feed the war machine and the greed index, all for nothing save a watered down brand of social darwinism. Hitler, calling the disabled “useless eaters”–is there really much difference between that idea and Romney’s 47%? Mango is mango. Sweet and impoverished land. Sweet fruit on a hard day. Sweet. Woke up this morning wild for the goodness which is ours alone–we demand it, savor it, fight for it, call it up.
Disability in a dream is a mango early, early just about first light, I’d say.
Planet of the Blind 