an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Friday, February 29, 2008

. . . . .


In the dream we all stayed in the fathers' house and planned the wedding on the arrival of the groom. We wanted to swim in the river which was bath warm and technicolor green and spangled, but too much was in the way. The boys played a game of baseball on the stoop below the house, and though they had no bat, no gloves, just stuff from the lot to kick around and throw, and though the house above us on the hill let its machinery fall down on us, they stayed around and tossed things in the air. The man and the woman living in the house above us left their windows open and the the gauze curtains fluttered in the breeze. They were out looking for his father's ghost. When the groom arrived I saw it was you, and I wasn't surprised though I'd fled from you in those years when no pause was given for caring. "Okay then," I said, "let's be happy."


"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

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