Talked about sleep paralysis and dreams in prison today. And what, if anything, comes of life after death without our familiar physicality.
Corrections commissioner, in his last week, gives big wave and smile walking by windows to our room.
There’s a proleptic quality of dreams.
Prolepsis
“He’s dying!” the Christian Science big guy said to the Catholic big guy stepping in to say hello. The medium size Greek Orthodox shook his head at the unexpected proclamation, and the Muslim big guy, getting ready to head out, stood.
We’d been talking about Yom Kippur, vows, and the reconstructing of reality.
After the tiring walk out, after one of the men trying to extract a promise I wouldn’t die this week and would be back next week, we got some curly fries, peach yogurt and ginger ale, drove to Rockport harbor, and watched the comings and goings there.
And it hits me -- it’s all comings and goings.
Now I sit facing Bald Mountain as contrails and thin clouds ready for the rainy weekend.
God is
not only
good
God is
what good
could be
if God were
capable of
existing here
It’s clear now -- one of my former lives was no doubt lived a prisoner in the Bastille Saint-Antoine fortress, another was lived in Carthusian Grande Chartreuse monastery -- where I dreamt of living in the 21st century, in a sleep paralysis while a desperately disturbed man seeks to rule the world with his comic arrogance and peculiar pomposity.