Wednesday, 5 March 2014

Those crazy sleeping brains

A dream about a family of ranchers. I was in turn one of two brothers and the old widowed father. Wives and children are vague background presences. The brothers are trying to run the ranch while caring for the father. There is love and exasperation in equal measure. Father is frail, angry, bitter, hard to live with. He used to be a powerful outdoors man, able to smell the rain coming. That phrase keeps popping up. The waking brain connects it to reading The Orenda. A plan emerges to take him out on a horse to the fields once more. An image of him sitting on a horse held by a son, smelling the coming rain, feeling alive for the first time in months.  Doctors fuss it might kill him. All involved including father wish it would. Images of splendid landscapes throughout, tawny rolling hills with mountains in the background. I often dream landscapes. 

I wake to a fragment of poetry in my head. Frederico Garcia Lorca.
Dejasnos cantando en la plazeta
dot dot dot claro, fuente serena.
Immense satisfaction when the missing word pops up: arroyo.
Arroyo claro, fuente serena. So beautiful, and so meaningful in a parched landscape.
Singing, you leave us in the village square
Clear stream, calm spring.

What are our sleeping brains up to?

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