We are frozen in amber now, like scarabs from prehistory. From this frozen place I see all of the cultural layers of my long life. And "cultural" for me inevitably means musical. They begin at late doo-wop/R&B -- He's a Rebel -- and end at Amy Winehouse -- Back to Black.
In my dream, I was to be initiated into the Rasta enlightenment, "standing in a shaft of light." But the plan fell victim to a massive electrical storm, and the high priest withdrew, leaving me alone and uninitiated under a thin blue shroud. There I lay worrying about my son, whom I had lost.
In real life, an extended family of South Asians ambled down Shady Hill, mingling without apparent concern in the company of three sprightly young Chihuahuas.
I dreamed that I watched myself -- a boy of nine -- escaping, with others, from an orphanage into the wider world, with only a satchel on my back. But when the dream was ending, I lost track of myself for good.
The comfort of the familiar. The coffee will bubble to the top of the French press come what may. And with a north wind, the synthetic church bells can be heard tolling six. Quasimodo at the keyboard, wearing a medicinal mask, playing his One Note Samba.
I dreamed that I stole thousands of Percocet tablets, on a bike in Ghana, with a friend. My brief relief overtaken by the prospect of another day of confinement.
An old unearthed CD -- Elvis Costello's Favorite after Favorite -- slides into my new dash, and so Nick Lowe, never one to stand clear of the abyss, can sing another street-suss serenade: "I"m a mess … for want of your caress..."