Some Dreams are like Country Music
“Some Dreams are like Country Music” is a kind of secret book and soundtrack made for all you lonesome cowboys/girls/humans. It’s made small so you can tuck it into your saddle bag, together with other dessert essentials like a photo of grandma and a sweet harmonica. And on a sleepless night as you lie down under a moonlit sky…you can reach for it to keep you company.
Ok, I translate.
You asked me what is my dream.
It didn’t strike me as odd to be asked this
first thing in the morning light.
Pure and white – yet it does not
expose, it picks no fight,
only gentleness and – possibilities.
I answered you with a certain fancy.
My dream is to live like art;
always asking questions and
never bored with probable answers;
free and somewhat exotic
to the common man
who craves but fears the uncommon.
My dream is to watch over
a library organised
in a manner of my invention
that whoever seeks a book
must ask or else find their own
I gave you more
dreams yet to be lived.
You listened with the silence
the breakfast sun on my naked face,
I turned to you /
your bewildered grin said
last night I had sworn aloud in my sleep,
wrestled monsters (or something big),
and after all was fought and won,
chuckled and sunk into a quiet deep.
What you had meant to ask was what did I dream,
a dream you wanted also to be in.
How is it we wake in a world
bathed in such clarity yet
about scenes birthed in darkness
or seek time’s unseen –
How in one same light
you and I can see such different
The classic rock and country concert was held in a junkyard or what looked like an abandoned mine. Trucks, dirt bikes and fast cars were parked on the sides of an open pit of red dust. Their drivers and passengers were scattered about. They weren’t the rough sort, contrary to their vehicles and the setting. The men and women both wore tuxedo jackets with leather lapels over lace dresses or crisp white shirts, and someone of their own particular gender was in a silky black slip and tall cowboy boots.
I didn’t feel out of place in this company but I don’t think I was wearing any tuxedo, leather or lace. The thing is, you never remember what you are wearing in a dream –unless it is one of those naked dreams, in which case you will not be wearing much at all. Well, this was not one of those naked dreams. It was – thank goodness – also not turning into a zombie dream.
Then the music started.
Oh, that lone electric guitar - it took its time to finish its whine. Four rhythmic taps followed. Was it the heel on the wooden stage, the edge of a snare drum, or a finger against the mic? The voice was low and smooth, the way a milkshake would sound if milkshakes made music. The skies suddenly turned dark or perhaps it was, all along, already night. Sight plays such tricks in dreams. Your mind makes visions as quickly as it can, drawing up a world that is seen without light. So, let us say that it was night, or more specifically, just after midnight.
I was walking somewhere. I remember the sound of my shoes on the dirt. Yes, I was trying to get closer to the stage, to that voice. Someone was holding my hand. I looked and it was a stranger. Why do strangers appear in our dreams with faces and personalities as if we know them? I knew you, stranger, holding your hand – I knew you even then – as I know you now.
I said to you, “that’s Elvis, isn’t it? It’s always Elvis!”