In the Depths of Your Dreams…

Did a plant ever speak to you from the depths of a dream?  (A dog did in mine, once)

After you’re good and dead, what do you want? Not that it’ll make any difference…probably.  But really, would you like to carry any of you into the transition?

What do you hope for after death pulls the shade on you from this side?

To remember? How we value our consciousness, our own me-ness.

Perhaps, if we re-merge with the womb…would that be progress?  Who said anything about progress?  Was it Mary Kay?

Were we meant to always be separate?  What does meant mean, anyway?

I wouldn’t opt for hell, but not to be disrespectful, feel I don’t want to be dandled on another father’s knee forever, either.

Do I really want to be alone forever?  (Just not with some people, I guess).  What a mouthful: forever!

Back to consciousness.  While I don’t want Groundhog Day every lifetime,  is it all downhill after this?  Back to the atom after Beethoven?

Do I not get a goody for not throttling my husband?  If so, what would that goody be?

I won’t care any more, they say.  I’d better let go or stay on as a ghost.

Dust to dust…”Hey! I’m in here!”

Like sleeping, they say, but no dreaming?

What do you want to dream about forever?  The past? The future? The eternal now?

In your dreams did a plant ever speak to you?

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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