OCTOBER 2018 TB_WEB

Series of Dreams
by Gene Cashman
African heat billowed up white against the predawn blue; nearly invisible except when briefly illuminated; it
built into a roiling brew of energy soon to be released. Behind my eyes tempestuous dreams scattered the ashes
of my enemies and the order of things. Jarred to pieces by the crack of thunder, a nights worth of thought,
held captive just before dawn, was strewn into a million remembrances of imagination. All forgotten in an
instant except for perhaps flashes that wisped around the coffee spoon, soon melting away as swiftly as the
cream. Fingers on the temple, eyes gripped tight, drilling deep the subconscious for meaning and connection.
Oh, if only Biblical Joseph could step out of the shadows and interpret, to tell me if I were pharaoh’s baker or
winemaker. Dreams permeated on this stormy morning.
Dylan played in the background, on soft but in his own words it was nothing really, nothing to turn off. “High
water rising” he sang “rising night and day,” it evoked last night’s evening news. An article, open on the table
before me beckoned to be read. It was a letter of sorts, musing on about the meaning of art. The weight of
the page was foreign. One could not zoom in to see the pictures as there were no pixels to manipulate. It was
an artifact from some other time. The print and the smell of the page were a layered canvas of intentionality
and creativity, glossy and real to the touch. It was an unexpected but welcomed change. I settled into a deep
backed chair and read.
The wind pushed and pulled branches. Rain pelted in rhythmic bands against a large single pane window. I
abandoned the article as a restful melancholy washed over. Art should inspire, I concluded, no matter what.
Resting the magazine on my chest I closed my eyes. Coffee breeds a depth of inspiration. The smell and deep
aroma opened a rabbit hole of thought. The lighting in the room pulled the shades down around my mind, and
reopened the projector’s flickering light to last night’s dreams. They were fever dreams, bred of competition
and worry – same as always. Me running elongated and distorted on a continual loop. I drifted to the back
pages of my mind.
A hand’s touch on my shoulder shut down the projector once more. The fragile structure of thought once again
was broken. Clearing my throat I remembered my day. It was a vast stretch of unoccupied time, meant for
productivity but bent towards solitude. I pondered with malice the former, wondering what to do with the
latter. It was half past ten in the morning, too much longer and I would be accused of playing hooky from
adulthood.
Anxiety seemed to be the baseline emotion these days. I felt its presence each time I slowly moved through
my morning routine, not certain if I had gotten all together straight what had me off kilter. Responsibility, I
suppose, people waiting discriminately, for some certain thing from me. These quick jaunts to sit and remember
were therapeutic. I absorbed the sound of the rain as I put the book I had intended to read back in my briefcase
along with my notepad. The book was Gilead, Marilynne Robinson’s masterpiece. I hummed “once there was
a way to get back homeward” before unwittingly moving straight to singing aloud “boy you are going to carry
that weight a long time.” I tipped the barista more than the coffee cost. In the moment I had chosen to spread
some joy. I enjoyed my time in her shop. I had not looked at my phone in nearly two hours.
18
bluffton.com #breezemagazine