Sky Blue Dreams

When I was a small child, said the swami, I saw in a dream that my uncle had come from a long way off and brought chocolates for everyone and a sky-blue sari with sequins for...

Then what happened?

What is this, are you interviewing me?!

No, just want to get the details right (I'd heard this story before)

Well, the others mostly laughed and ignored it but twenty minutes later that's exactly what happened!

I don't know why the day has started with the recalling of a meaningless dream more than 60 years ago. I seem to walk much of the time in the grey squares here as if in a dream-like state; no, not the fabled absent minded teacher, thinking great things or absorbed in his/her own petty thoughts and research ideas. No, something much simpler: just absent minded. The dream of being lost, of not being me, not being me, of being found and lost again.

Life is but a dream, merrily, merrily...

Nothing haunts us like these words; nothing seems truer. Can the truth seem? (A question for the philosophers!..sorry anton, couldn't resist!)

Mongol was right, we never took anything seriously. To dream is, perhaps, another way of refusing to grow up (Exupery?), a holding on to the belief that there is an elsewhere, another time beyond time.

Today you wanted to write about Gaddis and against the moderns; no, to rant, but instead your hand strays to a book you would never have otherwise picked up-Bachelard's book on reverie.

When there falls from the hands of the serving girl
the pale round plate,
the colour of the clouds,
the pieces must be picked up.

Gentleness of seeing oneself as a child again
In the old house of stones too black.
Gentleness of recovering one's thinner face
Asa pensive child, forehead against the windowpane.

~~~~

Everything that exists today was imagined long ago
--Blake.

I love that line, Mr. Blake.

You are an image within me, a picture. I've burnt the others. I dreamt of you and you came to me. Did you really live before I was born? I find that hard to imagine. Cut birthday cakes and shoo pigeons? Ride a bike and fall off it, grazing your knee and crying without me knowing, or without me dreaming it?

To be lost in thought is the wrong kind of loss. But we live and want to live in the world, with all of its fragmentation. Only by breaking do we see ourselves..sharply, like shards of cutting glass, like sky blue dreams that are brought to us in the early morning, gift-wrapped