Dream State

That recurrent dream where I'm on top of a questionable rick of scaffolding, tricking out some impossible jury-rigged solution for a problem that can't even be seen. Do enough theater, or especially opera, and the situation arises more times than you can imagine. That time we were doing Peter Grimes outdoors in Maine, and Miss Caldwell wanted the illusion of water. Sure, we could do that. A yapping on the compost heap brings me out of the dream. A Blue-Tick bitch has spread herself across the top of the pile, and she has her lips curled back, exposing a lot of teeth. There are three or four Black Lab hybrids milling around at the bottom of the pile, but she is the queen, there's no question. They snarl, but it's a questionable snarl, and herself is secure as "King Of The Road". I disburse them, because I don't want to listen. Yapping fucking dogs, give me a break. Theoretically sane, I throw a couple of rocks, and I don't have to listen anymore. Fuck a bunch of idle conversation, the false light of tomorrow; I'd rather breathe through a handkerchief than not breathe at all. Wind it down, that's my advice, it's already tomorrow. Me, proffering advice, is a kind of joke; but when things get out of control, a bad day or some kind of conflict, as soon as I get home, I grab my rucksack and take a walk. It's a light pack, maybe ten pounds, but honed, over fifty years of taking solitary walks in the woods. I carry a foam pad for kneeling, a very good magnifying glass, several plastic petrie dishes, a minnow net, a couple of power bars, a bottle of water, extra tobacco, one of those tiny bottles of single malt scotches (a Glendronach), a change of socks, and matches; a minimal first aid kit, a space blanket, and a small roll of duct tape. On my person I always have a knife and a Bic lighter. Reasonably prepared. First thing that takes my eye, recently it's been small flowers, I kneel down on the pad and examine detail with the magnifying glass. The chaos of the outside world disappears and I'm left with stamens and pistils, or the way tadpoles turn into frogs, or the army of attack geese down at the lake. One of the Chinese students asked why I lived the way I do, and I thought about that question for several hours today. No reason, really, just the path of least resistance. Geese do waddle, I noticed today, they walk like fat old people; the only time one will fly a short distance is when it's bumped from behind, lazy birds grown used to human feed, to which I contribute. I'm tempted to draw back from any sense of inter-action, any actual interaction with anything.