A New, Recurring and Free-Floating Dream Futility
It is unwedded to any particular narrative.
But to illustrate, in one, I have flown into Greater Dallas as a consultant to a big company. A tornado, anemic by Texas standards, boils between the skyscrapers and directly towards the car that has come to pick me, and my comrades, up. It barely rattles the windows, but the low clouds are ominous.
On the next day, vibrant and charming young workers at the company eat a light breakfast and prepare for the task at hand. They are not unfriendly to me, but they look a bit askance, wondering, no doubt, what this man of a certain age, flown in from what used to be called "Back East," could have to offer.
Two women, stylishly dressed and age appropriate to me, attach themselves, one on each wing. They are in a delightful, care-free mood. They whirl me into the lobby of one of the finer hotels in Manhattan, for cocktails and conversation with scintillating, important people. My chance to shine.
But in every instance, when I open my mouth to speak, I find that my tongue has adhered to my palate, on the right side. I think at first an especially sticky lozenge, but that's not it. It is as if my tongue were ingrown organically in the roof of my mouth. I try to use my thumb to detach it, but that just makes everyone in my company turn away their heads in disgust.
I can make one sound only. It might be made by a congenitally disabled court jester who has been engaged by a medieval king to amuse him, by a "Hop-Frog" of Edgar Allan Poe for example.
When I awaken, it seems right and just to me that my voice has been stilled. People have been telling me of late that I say too much, and no one seems eager to listen, even out of therapeutic impulses! And so, a curse well tailored and well timed.