I could dream about you...
Or I could dream about Walt Whitman. Which I did. I don't really understand any of it, and I hate it when my brain decides to go all "hey, let's play hide-and-seek with your knowledge base!" on me.
It was a stress dream at first; there was something wrong with the house I was in. I can't remember what anymore. But there was a very steep staircase from the front door above the street, where I walked out of the front door and I couldn’t see the stairs. There was the top of a denuded deciduous tree, branches poking and twisting over the edge of the porch. A chicken was perched in it. I told it it needed to watch out for the crows. Somehow I heard/knew about a campaign to save a painting of Walt Whitman at a local café. I wasn't sure how to get down from the porch to check it out. I suddenly was at the café, and the painting was really a charcoal sketch of an older black gentleman with glasses. The reason it needed to be saved? It was clipped poorly to the inside of the glass door of the café, about to fall from its metal clips. I thought the seriousness of the need to save it was a bit exaggerated. Also, in my dream, I felt that off confusion I get when there’s something that I think I know, but it’s out of reach. Walt Whitman was black? - I asked myself.
I sat at a table outside with another man whom I didn’t know. Another man was complaining to a gentleman at the next table “These folks don’t even know you!” as if it were a crime to not know the person. The first man turned around and said “This here is Walt Whitman.” Again, as though we should be ashamed of ourselves. And it turned out he was the black man in the sketch. And I thought - Walt Whitman is still alive? Not dead!Walt Whitman stood up to introduce himself. I stayed seated, and smiled in my normal shy, embarrassed fashion and mumbled “I really enjoy your work,” even though at that moment my brain refused to remember anything about Walt Whitman other than that I thought he was white and dead. For which I felt stupid, because here he was. And in the dream I was certain they meant the Walt Whitman that we all know I mean, so it’s not like he was some other guy who just happened to be named Walt Whitman.
Not dead!Walt Whitman shook our hands, thanked me about my statement, and started talking about his work with the gentleman seated at my table. That man said something like “You could’ve used more romance in your stuff.” Not dead!Walt Whitman said “Well, there was some romance between Billie and Ellie.” I felt like I knew that piece, and feeling suddenly like I could contribute, offered “That was really more like anger.” Not dead!Walt Whitman turned his head, smiled at me and said “assemble” (the French dance term way) the way one might say “touché,” and I flushed and felt stupid again, not sure if I had the right piece of fiction, not sure if Not dead!Walt Whitman was being ironic, making fun of me, or acknowledging a point. I smiled my polite, ingratiating smile that I keep on hand for whenever I’m out of my depth, and kept my head down.
And then when I woke up, I really couldn't remember if Walt Whitman was dead or alive, white or black, or anything about what he ever wrote, only that he was a writer. I had to look it all up on the internet again to feel sanguine in my knowledge of his writing and life. Which was never stellar, but at least I knew some basics. My brain just decided to eat that information and turn out something else for to confuse me. My brain is weird. Sometimes I seriously fear what will happen to me as I age and my brain decides to get even more devious about where it puts things like who Walt Whitman is, where my socks are, and whether or not that big object in front of me is a car, a bus, or a turnpike. Sersiously, I think I might be in trouble at some point. Sheesh.
It was a stress dream at first; there was something wrong with the house I was in. I can't remember what anymore. But there was a very steep staircase from the front door above the street, where I walked out of the front door and I couldn’t see the stairs. There was the top of a denuded deciduous tree, branches poking and twisting over the edge of the porch. A chicken was perched in it. I told it it needed to watch out for the crows. Somehow I heard/knew about a campaign to save a painting of Walt Whitman at a local café. I wasn't sure how to get down from the porch to check it out. I suddenly was at the café, and the painting was really a charcoal sketch of an older black gentleman with glasses. The reason it needed to be saved? It was clipped poorly to the inside of the glass door of the café, about to fall from its metal clips. I thought the seriousness of the need to save it was a bit exaggerated. Also, in my dream, I felt that off confusion I get when there’s something that I think I know, but it’s out of reach. Walt Whitman was black? - I asked myself.
I sat at a table outside with another man whom I didn’t know. Another man was complaining to a gentleman at the next table “These folks don’t even know you!” as if it were a crime to not know the person. The first man turned around and said “This here is Walt Whitman.” Again, as though we should be ashamed of ourselves. And it turned out he was the black man in the sketch. And I thought - Walt Whitman is still alive? Not dead!Walt Whitman stood up to introduce himself. I stayed seated, and smiled in my normal shy, embarrassed fashion and mumbled “I really enjoy your work,” even though at that moment my brain refused to remember anything about Walt Whitman other than that I thought he was white and dead. For which I felt stupid, because here he was. And in the dream I was certain they meant the Walt Whitman that we all know I mean, so it’s not like he was some other guy who just happened to be named Walt Whitman.
Not dead!Walt Whitman shook our hands, thanked me about my statement, and started talking about his work with the gentleman seated at my table. That man said something like “You could’ve used more romance in your stuff.” Not dead!Walt Whitman said “Well, there was some romance between Billie and Ellie.” I felt like I knew that piece, and feeling suddenly like I could contribute, offered “That was really more like anger.” Not dead!Walt Whitman turned his head, smiled at me and said “assemble” (the French dance term way) the way one might say “touché,” and I flushed and felt stupid again, not sure if I had the right piece of fiction, not sure if Not dead!Walt Whitman was being ironic, making fun of me, or acknowledging a point. I smiled my polite, ingratiating smile that I keep on hand for whenever I’m out of my depth, and kept my head down.
And then when I woke up, I really couldn't remember if Walt Whitman was dead or alive, white or black, or anything about what he ever wrote, only that he was a writer. I had to look it all up on the internet again to feel sanguine in my knowledge of his writing and life. Which was never stellar, but at least I knew some basics. My brain just decided to eat that information and turn out something else for to confuse me. My brain is weird. Sometimes I seriously fear what will happen to me as I age and my brain decides to get even more devious about where it puts things like who Walt Whitman is, where my socks are, and whether or not that big object in front of me is a car, a bus, or a turnpike. Sersiously, I think I might be in trouble at some point. Sheesh.