Another night of steady dreaming; the best kind of night, a purgative for the brain. I was at some sort of gathering of clever, idea-filled, gently humorous folk. There was music (of the strolling minstrel variety). The gathering was rather small, but attracted the attention of an itinerant band of rum-sellers. They set themselves up on the spot with bright-colored outfits and cheerful banter. They had some sort of bubbling cauldron attached to something that looked an awful lot like a set of bagpipes, at the end of which was a spigot for delivering various crazy flavors of rum. By crazy, I really mean crazy (and even disgusting) like sausage-flavored rum. In real life, I haven’t drunk any sort of rum for almost ever — I think the last rum I was around was poured into batter to make a Bacardi rum cake, and the odd rum and coke with lime that passed my lips was more than thirty years ago. Why rum sellers? Why now?
There was a bonfire, too, and a felicitous combination of indoor and outdoor settings in this dream. People spontaneously delivered themselves of poems-in-process, spoke about ideas (real ideas, no politics), and danced, together or alone. I myself climbed the wall of a three-story building set to the side that was cut neatly open, neat as a cross-section in a lab. It looked like a large doll house. Once I precariously arrived and flopped over into the room I was seeking on the third floor, there was applause and “here-here’s” all around as though I had performed a particularly clever trick. It was like a game, where extra points were given for subtlety of language, sweetness of longing unfulfilled, tender sighs, and the exercise of a gentility hitherto forgotten. The evening ended and we all melted with no goodbyes into the dawn.
Two words startled me awake this morning: redundancy and iteration. They connected in my antediluvian brain with musings about computer searches, and the still half-formed thought came to me that we deceive ourselves if we think we find accurate definitions or truth merely because we find so many iterations, so much redundancy; that we should beware the original-idea-killing fog of that maze. The iterations are designed to lead us, yes, but not in some intellectual way toward truth (and certainly not beauty), but more likely, away from it.
I swear to God, I did not pick mushrooms in the woods. I did not eat them. Actually, Buck and I ate a lovely supper of roast chicken (with a paste of slow-roasted garlic rubbed under its skin, placed on a bed of fresh thyme, the fragrance was amazing) and a hash made from zucchini, yellow squash, and onion. And it rained last night. We sat in bed reading, with a little fire going, until past 11. Very, very nice.