I don’t know if it’s the season, or disruptions in my sleep pattern, or the pounds of sinsemilla I’ve been smoking*, but life has taken on a distinctly dreamlike cast lately. Strange things have been happening, not necessarily exciting things, but enough to make me question if some sort of breach has opened between so-called “reality” and the world of dreams.
For instance, did a cute teenage hippie girl really wander into yesterday’s open mic and sing a lovely a cappella version of Syd Barrett’s “Dark Globe”? Did I really read about a bizarre dispute going on at the World Chess Championship, where it appears that one player has been sneaking off into the bathroom to cheat? Did the voice of Johnny Cash singing “I Heard That Lonesome Whistle Blow” really come drifting across the river in Crooked Creek? Dig Hugo Chavez really call George W. Bush the devil and start waving around a Noam Chomsky book? Did Leila really call me “banana boat”? I just don’t know anymore and, to some extent, I don’t care. Life is but a dream anyway, and as long as it’s a relatively pleasant and interesting dream, you won’t hear me complain.
(*not really—I kid)