"A Dream"

This is what I dreamed last night. I wrote it down as soon as I awoke. Okay I tweaked it a tad so it would scan, but this is basically it.

I was on a journey with my sisters Sylvia, and Kim. The girls were children again. About 12, and eight. I was a young man perhaps 20. We were riding in a fine horse drawn carriage. A lovely affair of the sort that the gentry of the Federalist era used.

We were riding through Brooklyn, our Borough of Churches. However this was a city not built by blind capital, but one wrought by idealists from the Sun King's realm.

So beautiful, such color. A thoughtful, practical lovely city.

In the dream I remember leaning out slightly from the carriage window to see as much of this dream Brooklyn as I could. Everything I saw combined function, and art. Much as the Ancient Chinese did.

My sisters, as I took in the sights, did as I always remembered them doing on long trips.

They giggled, and played mysterious hand games.

Given what grandma was teaching them I assumed they were casting spells. Knowing them they probably were.

Dreams.












My dear sisters, and I were on our way to see a play. A fevered collage of the "Red Shoes", "A Mid-Summer Nights Dream", and something I can't identify. I could make something up, but it wouldn't be true to the dream.

The Tickets.

A whole anxious subplot to this mayhem was my trying to find the tickets. As my sisters sat in their white with hints of silver Jane Austin gowns I quietly poked about my pockets for the damned tickets.

Btw, I'm not a dress designer. So how did I come up with such gorgeous gowns for my sisters. Also, no architect I, so how did I cook up the Sun Kings Brooklyn?

That, and all the endless cute details of this dream,...which if I could I'd post here as a video.

Anyway where the hell does all this come from, and don't start with that collective unconscious stuff. I think something grander than even that may be involved.

Anyway the footman, yeah that guy was there too. The footman opened the door, and my beautiful little sisters climbed down. So off we went ticketless to the dream theatre.














'But oh what a theatre!

It was as wonderful as the Pentagon is grim. Imagine a palace for the arts as designed by Turner, and Walt Whitman. Yeah I could live with that.

We passed under a free floating rotunda whose ceiling was spangled with stars, and misty nebulae,...Turner.

Wait gets better.

My Brother John. My deceased big brother John. John the war hero. John the politician. John the husband, father, and brother. My brother Johnny was standing the entrance of this dream pavilion.

As I said I'm writing this down as soon as I woke up. I need to remember this more than I need to share it with you.

He said nothing. The dead never do in my dreams. But he handed me an envelope. It was my "lost" tickets.

I'll end it here.

The copy goes on as the dream did. The play, my sisters the strange sky. More'n more dream stuff.

Better to end it here.