Do not open the silence.

Let the silence open you.

I met my dream on the road last night.

It smiled, dismounted, invited me to ride.

I shook my head. It turned and looked surprised.

“I’ve grown too fond of my feet,” I said,

“And your direction is no longer mine.

I’m pleased to finally meet you. Move aside.”

A little rude, I grant. But then,

Let dreams be dreams.  Let me be me.

 The bus pulled around the circle. He jumped off and showed me:

 “This was the library. Many hours we spent in here.”  

 He got back in through the back entrance of the steel bus. At the top of the circle:

 “This is the Ex-Pat. We drank in here.”

  “Hemingway?” 

 “Hem, always Hem,” he said.

 We pulled out into the open, now in a sleigh. A woman in the sleigh had black hair and dark eyes, and was bundled against the cold.

 “How many wars have raged over this land, wars we don’t even know about,” she said,

 A wolf jumped into the sleigh and nestled against her.

 “That’s a summons,” I said. “If you are summoned, you go.”

I feel like playing hooky today. At 58 and a half, you’d think I’d be immune to such needs and desires but no.

I blame the sun. I blame my dreams, and I blame my crazy optimism.

To quote the Today Show’s morning weather, in Medford, Oregon, they’ll see highs twenty degrees higher than normal. Yes, it’s already 75 degrees F at noon thirty. We’re expecting 87 and all signs are pointing up. It’s that sun, riding the blue sky like she owns it, smiling down on us down below as gentle breezes tousle our hair.

But my dreams, oh, my dreams. I wrestle with putting them in a document and sharing that document because the dreams seem so insane. First, there’s that shiver accompanying memory of them, the shiver coming when I heard the voice.

I dreamed I was with my wife and unknown others that I knew, in an unknown dream place, doing unknown things with great purpose. Dreams are often plotted like long Faulkner stream of consciousness sequences where you read along and wait for everything to come together and get explained. I didn’t quite reach that dream point.

The dream setting was an august wood paneled, carpeted, large room that smelled like musty old money. Tables covered with white linen table cloths were arranged in rows and columns. As I and the others were rising from our table to pursue our next set of dream responsibilities, I noticed a small silver rectangle. I remember it as being like a brushed silver piece of Chicklet gum. I was worried about this silver thing. It seemed like my worry alone. Others didn’t notice it. I tried getting their attention, picking it up.

I dropped it. It spilled open when it struck the white table cloth. From its contents came thousands of small black bugs, more bugs than I thought could be in something so small, much like Doctor Who’s TARDIS. I tried calling attention to everyone else what was happening but no one would look, so no one saw.

I spotted a second silver object, this one shaped like a brushed aluminum lozenge half an inch long. Calling attention to it, I knocked it from the table by accident. Hitting the floor, it spilled open. From it came five green caterpillars, each two inches long, with yellow stripes, as fat as my little finger. This time people stopped to notice but they were like, “Oh, that’s nice.” I awoke then, and the voice that gave me shivers said, “More can come from small things than you ever expect.” And I took that and accepted it as some kind of hopeful prophecy, well, about my writing efforts.

That’s where my optimism is assigned some blame for my desire to play hooky. All signs are pointing up. Who wants to sit inside and write when the day and future seem so bright? But here I am, in my chair, coffee at hand, thinking of the novel in progress, and the actors and the movies in the book, and Lemon, Nostradamus, Mother Nature, Cassidy, and Talon. No matter how beautiful the day, how bright the sunshine or future, I’m here for now.

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.