And all I ask
And all I ask
For my next trick I’m thinking a world without politics and politicking and political campaigns. No television. Maybe a world with typewriters instead of people. Anglican Chant.
What happens there, what is there, whatever or wherever it is that we go or do not go? If it is and we go, I pray it’s a dream. I hope it’s not real, because if it’s a dream it will be whatever I dream, whatever I want it to be, my blue heaven. If it’s real ain’t nobody gone want to be with this bubba; but if it’s a dream, that makes no matter, because it will be who and what I dream of. Relax: just because you’re in my dream doesn’t mean you have to have me in yours. You will be as I remember. As I dream.
You won’t be smoking in my dream; a smoker on the next balcony drives me inside if not insane; I won’t dream him into hell, but if he appears in my dream he will have given it up, because there ain’t no way. He can smoke in his own dream if he makes it that far, which is doubtful, but not in mine. May be this same balcony, though. And this view. Heaven. And the sound. Sound of the wind and sound of the sea. Children shrieking and laughing.
Instead of a dream, would one rather drift mistily among and through spirits of the ages for all eternity? Not me, I don’t like a crowd, not even a gathering of ghosts. So if it’s real I’ll be the distant, ever receding light that C. S. Lewis’ narrator saw dimly in the night sky.
Or board the tall ship docked at Bay Fisheries in front of my house, and sail across St. Andrews Bay, out the Old Pass into the ages of ages.
You won’t be smoking in my dream; a smoker on the next balcony drives me inside if not insane; I won’t dream him into hell, but if he appears in my dream he will have given it up, because there ain’t no way. He can smoke in his own dream if he makes it that far, which is doubtful, but not in mine. May be this same balcony, though. And this view. Heaven. And the sound. Sound of the wind and sound of the sea. Children shrieking and laughing.
Instead of a dream, would one rather drift mistily among and through spirits of the ages for all eternity? Not me, I don’t like a crowd, not even a gathering of ghosts. So if it’s real I’ll be the distant, ever receding light that C. S. Lewis’ narrator saw dimly in the night sky.
Or board the tall ship docked at Bay Fisheries in front of my house, and sail across St. Andrews Bay, out the Old Pass into the ages of ages.
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And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
TW
Thank you, Mike McKenzie
And "Sea Fever" thank you, John Masefield
And C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce
Thank you, Mike McKenzie
And "Sea Fever" thank you, John Masefield
And C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce