From a note written at the time:
It’s interesting to me that my attempt to recall and preserve this dream — the doing so of which seemed important because of the presence of my father — would take this form, rather than that of a narrative, as so many of my other dreams have done. The fact is, that is what I first set out to do, but the images (and no doubt their seeming contradiction and the sadness they aroused) would have nothing of it, and so I was quickly swept onto another course, which was almost like dreaming itself, or the dream in question continued. And that makes me wonder how faithfully this dream, or for that matter any dream, can be recorded. Because writing is also making. It’s something alive and growing, and therefore changing in our hands.
The oaks are thriving. The oaks are dying.
The path is wide through rolling hills.
My father is beside me.
But he doesn’t care or know.
The oaks are sighing. The oaks are crying.
Here. There. It’s impossible to tell.
Both. And all. Smoke. A bell.
Water at the sink. A glass for him.
The past for me. Present.
Recently Banned Literature, January 11, 2012
[ 93 ]