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Dream 3-22-18 6:30 a.m.

March 24, 2018

The “dream ego” was me, much as I was during my thirties (writing, teaching, editing poetry). I was at a large, afternoon gathering of people, probably outdoors, seated at tables, eating and drinking. A man in his fifties, whom I knew only slightly, came over to talk with me. He was a well-known poet, and he told me that he had brought along some poems from a manuscript that he was working on. A woman who was also there, with whom he was in a serious relationship (not married, but they had been something of a couple for some time) had critiqued one of the poems and had suggested a new first word. They were not getting along well, and it seemed the spat might descend into a split. She was standing nearby, frowning at him. He asked if I would take a look at the poems, especially the suggested revision.

I read the poems, and then as I gave him my opinion the woman came over to hear what I thought. I told them that I thought the poems were quite good. Although I didn’t say so, it seemed to me that the depth of insight in the imagery impressed me as that of a poet who was entering the mature period of his life and artistry, and who spoke with a voice of calm understanding and absence of ego. I said I thought that the proposed new first word was a good idea that would strengthen the poem, but that the poem had already been strong without it.

Another man, a friend of the couple, aged about 60, seemingly wealthy, came over to ask if they would like to get away from the party, by going for a ride in his new car. They liked the idea, and as the three started walking away they asked if I would like to come along.

The car was a large, burgundy, Mercedes convertible, with the top down. The owner got into the driver’s seat, and the poet got into the back seat. I wondered if the woman would get into the back seat with him or into the front passenger seat. She chose the front seat, so I got into the back with the poet.

As we were driving slowly down a one-way street, downtown, we were moving beside a very large car with a lot of people in it. They were dressed in swim suits, apparently returning from the beach. They commented on the Mercedes, jokingly disparaging it but at the same time showing admiration.

We turned down a smaller street. The car now felt and sounded to me like a Chris-Craft inboard motor boat (like one that my uncle had when I was a kid). To me, sitting in the back seat, it felt as though we were moving slowly and comfortably across open water. It still looked the way it had looked when I got in, except that now its shape was modified in one way: like my uncle’s Criss-Craft, between the back of the front seat and the well of the back seat, it now had something like a deck (but metal and the color of the car).

The woman decided that she would like to sit with her friend, the poet; so as we moved slowly along the street she got up onto the deck. The driver also got onto the deck, where he stood to direct our exchange of seats. When I got onto the deck, I realized that, with no one driving, the car was edging slowly toward the curb. I got down into the driver’s seat, corrected the wheel direction, and then slid into the front passenger seat. Again we were heading toward the curb, so I reached over to the steering wheel and turned it just in time, so that the front tire merely rubbed the curb for a few feet before heading back into our lane.

As the driver and woman settled into their seats, the driver joked about my bad driving, having run into the curb, but joked in a way that also expressed praise and gratitude.

[Does this have anything to do with the subject of this novel?  Who knows?  These are crazy days.  A car like a boat with a poet in the back seat might come in handy.]

[Immediately next, seemingly possibly related, in a way, dream.  Index to Dreams episode.]

From → dreams, Uncategorized

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