.....dreams of flying.....dreams of dying.....sexual dreams.....dreams about waking up
.....dreams that wake me up.....dreams that terrify.....music dreams.....
It is the music dreams I love the most. Rare they are and delicious.
I seem to have no music in me.
Guitars and pianos are foreign lands that I have no entrance visa for, except in dreams.
There was a band called Lothar and the Hand People. They played the theramin, a machine that created a magnetic field around itself and played by moving hands through the field, like tree branches slowly moving in the wind. I never heard the music they made, I could only imagine it, long mournful sounds of whales and comets, cobwebs in the wind.
That is the music I dream.
And there is one more ingredient, the lost notes of a harmonica, not the harsh, out of breath sounds but notes that live on after the playing ends, like Tibetan Bells. They soar and hover in the bright black night to live forever, not fading away but flying out of sight.
This is the music of my dreams.
I wake translucent.
"How’s that?" I replied.
"Every human being I make is unique," he said, "except for one thing."
"What’s that?" I said.
"You all want to be somebody else."
In England we talk about the weather.
"May rain later," says the woman who will kill herself that same day, her despair overwhelming her like a dark cloud.
"Bit of a chill in the air," says the man who’s wife has left him, while his cold and lonely heart shivers in his chest.
In England we talk about the weather.
"Unusual to have a frost this late in the year," says the man on the train to a fellow passenger, whose strung out daughter lies huddled like an embryo, going cold turkey in the condemned building where she lives.
"Unseasonably hot don’t you think," says the boss to his secretary, as her three year-old son lies dead from a fire at a day-care center.
In England we talk about the weather
Somewhere once in Texas it rained frogs.