If I dare, I will try to document the dream that I had last night, the one that swung in and out of focus all day long. I could have decided to brush it aside and instead, allowed the many distractions of the automatic motion that was this day to take over and dispel any other output.
First off, we were clear out of food. Given the fact that I had cooked a fifteen pound turkey only a couple of days ago and a ham, and stocked up on all the necessities, smoked salmon, bagles, cream cheese, capers,and olives, breads, butters - salted and unsalted, cereals, coffee, milk and cheese, cream, pasta etc., etc., the larder looked like it had been looted by a starving army so that entailed a trip to the grocery store and that was difficult in itself because it seemed as if everyone else in Galway was clear out of food too. But still the dream insisted on staying with me if only in dribs and drabs.
The woodstove was in need of cleaning out and I had to tell middle son to tidy his room and put all his laundry where it was meant to go. Yes, I said, you know underwear drawer for underwear, jeans for jeans, t.shirts for t.shirts, that kind of thing. He looked at me as if I had introduced a whole new language from outer space. His eyes grew wide and he held his guitar like a newborn baby. Screw the adolescent look, I said, and Neil Young's room is as tidy as a showhouse catalogue. He picked up some socks.
Still, the dream. The dream. Let's get to the dream before it leaves me for good. I have to document the dream. The dream is this. There is this place in the dream, fantastic gorges and canyons and idyllic spots, remote is the word. And, in these remote spots there are all these writers, standing alone reading their work. I am there, in my designated spot and others I see from the wonderful ability that my dream allows. I dart over them but return to me. I am on the edge of a cliff and reading one of my pieces. I am speaking it out aloud but there is no one for a thousand miles to hear me. But, this is it, the joy I get from reading my piece is unfathomable, just like the canyon below me. It DOES NOT matter if anyone hears me or not because I am writing just for the sake of it, for the thrill of it, for the pure expression of it and you know, I woke up this morning with an amazing epiphany. Art is art as it comes out of the person creating it. If nobody hears it or sees it or cherishes it or coddles it or deems it worthy, it is still art. It is always yours. I watched my words in the dream. They swam over the canyon like glorious eagles or tiny sparrows I don't know which but they were coming out of me into the air and I loved it, I was on top of a tall precipice and I wasn't going to fall and the words that I uttered swam in the air like perfume from a Pinon tree and nothing else mattered, nothing at all, only the way the words tumbled out into the atmosphere, like fragile feathers, white and tender, that I knew were surely bound to settle, somewhere, sometime, someplace.