Just before waking I dreamt I was sitting at table, in a rather nice restaurant. Across from me, a large window carried the imperfect reflection of the small candelabras that sit on every table, and the blur of motion of the waitstaff. My own reflection, and that of the old man beside me, was indistinct. A basket of garlic bread with paprika, a charger of ice and crudites, and a pair of Staunchon salt & pepper shakers were at the middle of the table; a salad of baby weeds was in front of me. The white bearded old man with bright blue eyes sits on my left. He wears a green and blue plaid flannel shirt, fastened at the throat with a bolo tie. In front of him, on the deep burgundy tablecloth, are a few pieces of grey rock, rock chips, and one leaf shaped flat grey rock the size of his hand. Every few minutes he scrutinizes this flint spearhead and turns it in his hands, then, taking one of the smaller flints, chips at the edge.
This dream seems to me to advocate preparation. But preparation for what? Preparation for hunting, for battle, perhaps. These practical considerations suggest work on my resume, a very practical thing to do. However the man reminds me of that not long ago, I read about a living person who made flint spearheads in the neolithic style that fooled serious collectors. Perhaps, if this one in my dream were he, it is a call to fabricate my own artifices, compositions. As soon as I consider the man's dress, I recall Lou Harrison, and think that this may be the meaning of the dream. I certainly hope it is my muse who is calling.